


Too Blunt An Instrument

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Mpreg, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-30
Updated: 2006-03-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 124,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A wish hurls John Doggett into a world that he could have never imagined possible, but that just might give him everything he needs.





	1. Too Blunt An Instrument

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Too Blunt An Instrument

## Too Blunt An Instrument

### by Rose Campion

##### [Story Headers]

  


Too Blunt an Instrument- 

The spirit is too blunt an instrument  
to have made this baby.  
Nothing so unskilful as human passions  
could have managed the intricate  
exacting particulars: the tiny  
blind bones with their manipulating tendons, the knee and the knucklebones, the resilent fine meshings of ganglia and vertebrae in the chain of the difficult spine. 

Observe the distinct eyelashes and sharp crescent fingernails, the shell-like complexity  
of the ear with its firm involutions  
concentric in minature to the minute  
ossicles. Imagine the   
infitesimal caillaries, the flawless connections of the lungs, the invisible neural filaments through which the completed body  
already answers to the brain. 

Then name any passion or sentiment  
possessed of the simplest accuracy.  
No. No desire or affection could have done with practice what habit  
has done perfectly, indifferently,  
through the body's ignorant precision. It is left to the vagaries of the mind to invent love and despair and anxiety   
and their pain. 

Anne Stevenson 

* * *

Doggett looked doubtfully at the mostly rolled up rug. Just a foot of the edge showed. It was about the right shade of brown he was looking for, but it was also mostly under a big pile of other rugs. Monica, up from New Orleans for the week, had convinced him it'd be great idea to go to a flea market to find that perfect rug for his house. So far, the morning had been a wash. It was dead hot, stifling. Humid like a jungle, hot like a forge. There was about no shade whatsoever and the sky was a blue so pale it was almost white from the heat. The ratty little flea market took place in the middle of a huge asphalt parking lot, so the heat seeped up from the pavement as well as down from the sky. 

Monica, meanwhile, was off at the next booth, cooing over candlestick holders made out of old bits of woodwork, stairway spindles and the like. The look was called "distressed," but for the life of him, John couldn't see the point of a huge candlestick with the lead paint still flaking off of it. 

Doggett tugged at the rug, wanting to get it out from under the pile to at least get a look at it. It seemed like it was wool and old, and he was afraid that the dealer would want an exorbitant price or it would be full of moth holes. Or both. But this dealer was the only one in the whole place who had any rugs. He finally got it out from under the others. It was a lot bigger rug than he'd thought and probably wouldn't fit in the space next to the sofas. But since he'd gone to the bother of pulling it out, he was going to take a look at it. He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. Then he unrolled the rug. It was a bit fancy for his tastes. Flowers and swirly bits all over the brown background. He'd been thinking about something a little more geometric, maybe Navajo style. 

He was so busy being disappointed by the rug that he failed to notice the man who materialized by his side. 

"Okay, I haven't got all day. What's your first wish?" a voice beside him asked. Doggett turned. It was a short, squat man asking the question. He wore an ill-tailored pair of plaid golf pants and a kelly green golf shirt. He wasn't exactly the kind of guy you'd expect to see at a flea market, unless dragged there by his wife. 

"What?" Doggett asked, annoyed to be bothered by some guy who looked like he was a definite practical joker. 

"I said, what's your first wish?" the guy repeated. 

Doggett finally figured out what was odd about the guy. He had a jewel on his cheek, just under his eye. Okay, so, he was a weirdo and a troublemaker. And that didn't sit well with Doggett. 

"What are you talking about?" Doggett demanded. 

"You opened the rug, you get three wishes. It's the standard agreement," the guy said. He held out and hand and before Doggett even realized it, he was shaking the man's hand. "Call me Gene." 

"Wishes? Like Aladdin?" Doggett asked. Then Doggett burst out laughing, so loudly that it attracted Monica's attention. She put down a bookend made from a corbel and came over. 

This joker looked more like a used car salesman than any I Dream of Jeanie that Doggett could think of. A used car salesman with indigestion. 

"Wishes," Gene said. "Look, can we get this over with. I'm a bit agoraphobic. I want to get back to the rug if that's okay with you. So, what'll it be? You want to be a millionaire? You want a ying-yang that never goes soft? A remote control that works on your wife's mouth?" 

He looked over at Monica as he said the last. 

"I'm not his wife," Monica said, surprisingly chipper despite what the man had just said. "Just a friend. You're really offering John three wishes, aren't you? Can I have one too?" 

"Sorry, doll," Gene said. "You weren't the one who opened the rug. And no, he can't transfer any his wishes to you. It's in the contract. Three to a customer. No transfers, no wishing for more wishes. No wishing that you didn't have the wishes." 

Gene snapped his fingers and suddenly a thick sheath of papers appeared in his hands. Doggett reached for the contract, unable to believe his eyes, but knowing that it had just appeared there in a puff of smoke. 

"You don't have time to read the contract," Gene said. "Just make your wishes. I'll tell you if it's in violation of the terms." 

"Okay, let me get this straight here," Doggett said. "You're a nutball with a jewel on your cheek. You come up to a total stranger at a flea market and expect him to believe that you're going to give him any three wishes he wants. What kind of fool are you taking me for?" 

"It's the real thing," Gene said. He snapped his fingers and a bright purple matchbox car appeared in his hand. It was the hot rod style matchbox car that had been Doggett's favorite as a young boy, which had been taken from him by a bigger boy when Doggett was five. He'd wanted another one for years when he was a kid, but never could find one. This one was the exact same one. It had JJD scratched into the bottom. Gene handed it to him. "Not exactly Rosebud, is it? But a small proof of my bona fides. Absolutely free. On the house. Or rather, on the rug. So, what'll it be? You want to be President?" 

"No," Doggett said. "Okay, if this for real, I want to have another child. I want a family." 

"That's your final answer?" Gene asked. "You want to have a child?" 

"Yeah," Doggett said, not believing for a minute that this was a real genie. No doubt he'd be made a fool of in some way or another. 

"You got it," Gene said, and snapped his fingers. 

* * *

Doggett woke with a start realizing two strange things. First, he wasn't sleeping on his stomach. He was on his side, knee propped up on a small pile of pillows. Second, he was about to lose the contents of his stomach and he was going to do all over the bed if he didn't make it to the bathroom first. 

He scrambled out of the bed and hurried in the direction of his bathroom. He just barely sank down on his knees in front of his toilet before he lost it. It really wasn't much, just a little acidic fluid. He felt much better after a few moments of heaving. He rose to his feet, only now realizing it was hard to do so. His waist was significantly thicker than he was used to. Indeed, it seemed to bulge hugely. What the hell? He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked down at his belly. Yes, he'd definitely lost sight of his own dick. What was going on? 

His eyes happened to glance at the back of his toilet. A small pile of unfamiliar books rested on top. He scanned the titles, unable to believe what he was reading: "The Change- Your Guide to Andro-Fecundity", "Your Andro-Pregnancy after Thirty-Five", "Your Andro-Pregnancy Week by Week", and "Masculinity and Andro-Fecundity". 

What the hell? 

He added up the known facts and suddenly came up with a very nasty looking sum. It couldn't be. This was some huge practical joke or something. Someone mocked up those books just to play him into this. It had to be. He picked one up off the toilet expecting the pages inside to be blank. He flipped the top book open and it was full of printing, color pictures even. His eyes rested on an anatomy diagram. 

He was going to be sick. Not the nausea again. Sick to his stomach that someone had gone to elaborate lengths to pull this off. No, it couldn't be. 

He couldn't stop himself from spreading his legs slightly and reaching down between them. He felt something warm and decidedly soft and wet. Oh, no. No. He probed a little further and found his finger met no resistance where there should have been just skin. Then there was the oddest sensation of the finger going inside of him. 

He dropped the book and rushed out of the bathroom, not certain what he was intending. Where he would go for help. Not even sure what had happened to him, except that it had to be something that should be impossible. 

The bedroom had a new rug. An elaborate brown oriental rug. The one from the flea market yesterday. Doggett looked down at the rug, then up again. Gene was there, and he was smirking. 

Doggett collared Gene, pulled the fireplug of a man almost off the floor by the front of his kelly green shirt. "What did you do to me?" Doggett demanded. "What did you do?" 

"You wanted to have a child. Wish granted," Gene said, sounding only somewhat strangled. Doggett dropped him back to the floor after only a few seconds, feeling guilty at this violent outburst. "Congratulations. You're due in about four months." 

"Now, wait a minute here! I ain't exactly a scientist, but any grade school kid knows that you need a daddy and a mommy to make a baby. Daddy can't do it all by himself." 

"Well, you know, I had to alter reality a little to make your wish come true, but not any worse than usual," Gene said. "You still need two these days, but Daddy can do it just fine if he gets a little help from another Daddy." 

Actually, Doggett could almost feel the memories seeping in, like ghosts slipping under the doorcrack of his mind. In a memory that wasn't quite solid, like he'd watched it on TV or something, he remembered buying those books on the back of his toilet. It couldn't have been. He didn't buy them. There weren't any such books. They didn't exist. And yet...there they were. He remembered that his copy of the credit card receipt was tucked in the pages of one as a bookmark. That would be his signature on it. 

"You're telling me, you altered all of human history, just to grant me a wish?" Doggett asked in disbelief. 

"I do it all the time," Gene said. "It's not a big deal. You know, last week, some yahoo asked for peace on earth. To make that one happen, my colleague had to get rid of everyone. Luckily, he unwished it toute de suite. I think a simple mutation like yours is bupkis, comparatively speaking." 

"Okay, let's accept for the minute that you did all of this," Doggett said. In a strangely split memory, he could remember both the sudden spread of the andro-fecundity mutation and the other world, the one he'd come from, where men didn't get pregnant, never had, never would. He felt like his head might explode from this vertigo of reality switching. 

"But, this ain't what I asked for," he said. "I didn't say get me knocked up and change history while you're at it." 

"You said you wanted to have a child," Gene said. "You couldn't be more clear." 

"I was thinking more like Monica would marry me and we'd do all the usual things to make a baby," Doggett said. 

Gene sighed. Largely and loudly, like someone entrusted to a hated, yet important responsibility. He put a hand on Doggett's shoulder and said, "Look, I'm sorry I have to be the one to tell you this. But that's not really what you were wishing for. If you wanted to do that, you didn't need me to make a wish. You could have had her any minute you wanted to go out and get her. She couldn't have been any more obvious if she'd been wearing a sandwich board that said, 'Fuck me now, John Doggett.' As my momma woulda said, the girl's got round heels. One tap and she falls right onta her back. You're a red blooded man. A girl as pretty as that giving all the signs that she was giving, well, if you wanted her, you would have given her that tap. You didn't want her, guy. Or any other lady. A handsome guy like you, the babes should be falling into your lap." 

"Just what are you trying to say here?" Doggett demanded. 

"You're gay," Gene said. "The you in this reality is a little bit less uptight about it, but that much I didn't change. You always were. You always will be." 

"I'm not," Doggett protested. "I don't. I didn't. I never have. Not with a guy." 

He liked women just fine. He'd been married, hadn't he? Sex hadn't exactly been the most inspirational, but he certainly had done it with his wife. And other women. He could get it up for females and that meant he wasn't gay, right? 

"Sorry, guy," Gene said. He put a hand on top of Doggett's round belly. "You did. The evidence is right here." 

Doggett brushed Gene's hand off. His belly wasn't that huge, actually. At least it wasn't as mammoth as it had first seemed to him, just nicely rounded. Only slightly larger than might be accounted for by a beer gut. But there was a tautness to it that was distinctly un-gut like. It definitely wasn't fat, that was for sure. He was pregnant. 

Half of him was ready to flip out, maybe go with that impulse to another violent outburst. Only the thing was, there was another part of him that remembered that he'd been pregnant for five months now and had had a chance to get used to this. He even remembered how it had happened. And there was a part of him that wasn't at all displeased. It had a certain animalistic level of satisfaction in the situation. 

"I can't believe you made me pregnant," Doggett said. 

"It's what you asked for," Gene said. 

"It is not and you know it," Doggett said. 

"You know, I've been at this genie stuff for about forty years, so I'm getting good at it, and believe me, it's definitely what you were asking for," Gene said. 

"Wait a minute, only forty years? I thought you genie types lived forever? At least you do in the stories." 

"I wasn't always a genie. I was a used car salesman until one day my wife dragged me to this estate sale. She had me open up this rug for her. She liked it. I liked it fine but I didn't like the price tag, so I was having a bit of a discussion with the wife. All the genie heard was me say, 'I wish I could solve your problems for you. I wish I could solve everyone's problems.' Bingo, I'm a genie. And the fact of the matter is, people don't want their problems solved. They just want more problems. It's like those poor chumps who go to Vegas. They don't play to win, they play to lose." 

"You think I did this to myself because my life wasn't screwed up enough for my tastes?" Doggett asked, not sure whether he wanted to hit this idiot or kick him in the ass. Only the thing was, he was the only who could get Doggett out of this mess. The genie had to unwish it and soon. Doggett yearned for being back at the moment when his most pressing problem was finding a damn rug for his living room. 

"I wish I could forget I ever met you," Doggett said. 

"Granted," said Gene, smugly. 

Oh, shit, Doggett thought. That was exactly the wrong wish to make. "I take it back. That wasn't a wish," he said, desperately as the depth of his problem started to sink in. Already, he could feel his other memory track slipping away. All thoughts of Monica at the flea market fading away. And he was still pregnant, and still would be. He hadn't wished to have never met the genie. 

"Sorry, no can do," Gene said. "It's in the contract. Any statement following the prescribed I wish structure can and should be taken as a wish. It's too late. But you still have one last wish. You want to unpregnant yourself, wish you'd never met me, wish away." 

"No," Doggett said. "I gotta think about this. I don't want to screw up my last one." 

"Okay, I'll be in touch," Gene said. "I'd better get going. You've got a busy morning. You've got an appointment with your androcologist in an hour and he's across town, forty five minutes away." 

Doggett remembered that, the memories of the last several months, no, his whole changed lifetime, not flooding in, but simply now available for recall as he needed them. He looked around. Gene was gone, but he had a new rug on his bedroom floor he didn't remember buying. He startled as he looked at the bedroom clock. It was later than he thought. What had he been thinking about? Didn't matter. He had to be hauling ass if he was going to make his appointment. 

He stepped into the bathroom and started the shower. He spared a little time to look at himself in the mirror. Five months and only going to get bigger. There wasn't anywhere for the baby to go but out. He still wasn't sure he liked this whole idea of him being pregnant. Especially him being alone and the other father being a total stranger. 

* * *

While he showered, Doggett spent a moment remembering just how he'd gotten himself into this situation. 

It had been Halloween, which had fallen on a Friday. He hadn't planned on going out to party. He had figured he'd be spending the night tossing various forms of sugar to the little monsters in their costumes that rang on his doorbell, then going to bed early. But something in him had grown stretched and strained as the evening had gone on and dad after dad had brought his kids around to Doggett's front stoop. One last pint-sized vampire with fake blood on his plastic fangs and Doggett couldn't stand it any longer. He shut up the house, shut off the lights and without even bothering with a costume headed into the city, to a club he'd visited a few times before. 

He hadn't been planning on doing anything beyond getting a drink and maybe doing a little bit of people watching, well, watching of the attractive guys who swarmed the dance floor. But one drink had stretched out to two or three, then more, to the point where he was thinking he might have to catch a cab back home. Alcohol doesn't make a guy do anything he wouldn't have done anyway, Doggett thought as he remembered. But it certainly swept away a lot of good sense. Made you do things that you might have been inclined to do, but that usually common sense stopped you from doing. 

It was about the sixth beer when the pirate caught his eye. Because it was Halloween, the club was full of guys in costume- there were cowboys, including a few who wore nothing but a thong with their chaps, there were military guys in camo, sailors in white and blue, and there'd been a lot of pirates. But this pirate had stood out from the crowd by being about six inches taller than anyone else in the club. He was an older guy, his neatly trimmed beard was more salt than pepper, so despite his height and good shape, he didn't attract much attention. It really hadn't taken much more than eye contact and a smile for the guy to lure Doggett into the back room. 

Once there, the pirate had Doggett's jeans down in short order and had been tearing a condom wrapper open. Doggett was wriggling in anticipation. He hadn't been thinking about the stupidity of doing this with a total stranger or the fact that he didn't even know the guy's first name, much less his last. He hadn't been thinking about the possibility of getting fucked...there...as he'd still been thinking about his vagina. He'd come late to his change. It'd been only a few years ago it'd been complete and he still wasn't quite used to it, to say the least. He wasn't a virgin, but he could count the number of times on half a hand. 

The guy had said, "Oh, wow, you're..." when he'd discovered that Doggett was andro-fecund. 

Doggett had just interrupted him and said, "Shut up and fuck me already." 

Then suddenly Doggett had been penetrated. Not anally like he'd been expecting. It had been a great fuck, there was no doubt about that. He'd never come harder and he'd been too drunk and horny to think about anything else but coming. It was a definite cat in heat effect. 

It wasn't until afterwards that Doggett had noticed just how wet he'd felt, even to the point of it dripping down his leg. Much more than he would have expected, considering the other guy was wearing a condom. He retreated to the bathroom, waited a while among the pirates and cowboys and superheros who were all necking and even worse, until he could claim a stall. 

Once inside, he'd investigated. Swiped at himself with a finger and pulled away a sticky, slimy mess. It smelled suspiciously familiar. He tasted a little bit just to be sure. It was decidedly come. Either the guy had been playing him and had taken the condom off on purpose or the condom had broken. Some stranger had come inside of him. Right after that, things got a bit fuzzy. Doggett assumed he had gotten a cab and gone home. He spent a long time wallowing in the shame and anger of it. Anger at what the guy had done, and anger at himself for being so damn stupid. Shame because he should have at least tried to say no, or better yet, not have been drinking so much. 

He had let a month of uneasy nights and little sleep roll by. Then he peed on a little white stick from one of those test kits and the window of the stick turned blue. There'd been nothing for it but to straighten his shoulders and take on his responsibilities like a man. 

He'd gone back to the club a couple of times to see if he could find the guy. It was probably just as well that Doggett didn't see him. What was Doggett going to say if he ever did catch up to the guy? "Hi, you don't know me, but last Halloween you knocked me up. We need to talk about you coughing up child support." Yeah, right. 

* * *

Mulder was in the office early, paging through his report on the odd, even for him, case of Anson Stokes. He'd promised it to Skinner today, along with the explanation of how he'd gotten into Skinner's office like that. The report, he thought, was a masterpiece considering what he had to work with. It'd been a X-file that was way out there. It was like the granddaddy Hope diamond of weird shit in a pile of little diamond chips from a mall jewelry store. Yup, he thought as he gave the report one last flip through, I'm going to explain to Skinner that it was all caused by a genie, yes, like in the fairy tales. Skinner was used to Mulder's finely wrought madness, but this was a bit...extreme. 

Scully walked into the room. She carried a file folder full of newspaper clippings. She dropped it on his desk expectantly, so he opened it up immediately. What he saw was nasty enough, but not out of the ordinary enough to catch his attention. Murder stories, all of them. From the Gomez case that was all over the news last month to the kind of stuff that was buried in the metro section, homicides connected with simple robberies. 

"So, what's this, Scully?" Mulder asked, wondering where this was going to lead. He didn't sense even the slightest whiff of an X-file here. "The Gomez case is all over but the shouting. Male pregnancy is still somewhat unusual, but it's hardly an X-File." 

"I got a call this morning from an old friend of mine, Jim Prather. We went through medical school together. He ended up specializing in androcology," she said. 

He couldn't help the little half grin that escape. It was a pretty unusual specialty still, and most of its practitioners were considered to be something between an outright quack to just a bit of an odd duck. 

"Like I said, I got a call from my friend, Jim," Scully continued. "He was concerned with the number of his patients who have ended up dead in unusual circumstances lately." 

'Unusual how?" 

"Unsolved murders. Jaime Gomez was one of his patients. So were all the rest of those men in the news clippings," Scully said. "The police seem to think that they've got it pretty firmly pinned on Heidi Gomez, but she's claimed innocence all along. The other murders are unsolved, believed to be stranger murders that took place during the commission of another crime. Small valuable items were taken from each household, usually small electronics like laptop computers, sometimes art or jewelry." 

"And each man murdered was a patient of your friend Dr. Prather," Mulder said, seeing the sudden link, but knowing this wasn't a case he was willing to get drawn into easily. "Does that mean that they were all..." 

"Yes, they were all pregnant," Scully said. "I took the liberty of calling around the handful of other androcologists around town and the surrounding metro area." 

She put another file folder of clippings on the desk. "Dr. Christina Jackson. Her office is in Baltimore. Four of her patients died in violent circumstances this year. One just last week. Dr. Anoushka Sethi, practicing out of Bethesda, three dead patients in the last nine months. Dr. Tad Kosciusko, with an office here in downtown DC, four suspicious deaths." 

"So what you're saying here is that we've had at least sixteen murders of pregnant men in past year and no one has connected the dots?" Mulder asked, getting a very, very cold feeling in the bottom of his stomach. His breakfast eggs were churning into concrete. Yup, telling Skinner about the genie sounded like a picnic in comparison. Mulder had had enough of looking straight into monster's faces, of dancing that delicate dance to the edge of knowing the monster so well you almost became them. 

"In six of the cases, lovers, wives, and fathers even, were arrested and are being charged, all claiming innocence," Scully said. "In the other ten, the cases are just believed to be simple breaking and entering gone wrong. If you'll notice in most of the articles, the fact that the victim was pregnant is just a sidebar. In some, it's not even mentioned." 

"I think it's time to file a 302, Scully," Mulder said. 

"I'm ahead of you," Scully said, holding up another file. "We meet with Skinner in fifteen to discuss it." 

"So, how many men do you think are currently pregnant in the larger metro area?" Mulder asked as he started gathering up the clippings and putting them back into their files. He noticed that the papers they came from were scattered widely, from the Post to local papers from places he wasn't even still qualified as being in the metro area. 

"Well, in the area there are only the four androcologists that I've mentioned, plus about three more employed by the military. Each has a good several hundred patients on their books, but at any given moment in time only about fifty or less patients actively pregnant. I'd estimate we're talking less than two hundred men." 

"And nobody noticed that sixteen of two hundred are dead?" Mulder asked, outraged. 

"It's still kind of a taboo topic, Mulder. People fear the kind of change that the andro-fecundity mutation has brought about. Perhaps that's the motive of our killer." 

"Perhaps," Mulder said. He got his phone out of his pocket. "Hold on a minute." 

He dialed a familiar number quickly, hoping he would reach one of them, and not one of the other two. 

"Lone Gunmen newspaper group," Frohike said. 

"Frohike, it's Mulder," he said. "Look, I don't have much time, but there's something you need to know. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but I don't think Langly should be left alone at all for the moment. I think you guys should be super cautious about any strangers coming to your place. I believe we have a serial killer who's stalking pregnant men." 

"What?" Frohike said. "It's too early in the morning for this, Mulder." 

"You heard me. In the last year, sixteen pregnant men in the metro area have been murdered," Mulder said. "Just be careful. Keep the place locked up even tighter than normal. Look I have to go. I'll call as soon as I'm done with my meeting." 

* * *

Doggett sighed as he looked at the current state of his closet. Pushed to the side was his pretty generous wardrobe of suits. He wore a suit every day to work, the whole monkey suit and noose thing. Only the thing was, not a one of them fit him now. He was looking at one of the two suits he'd had altered as much as they would go, to give him room for his expanding belly. He'd been pushing off buying paternity clothes for as long as he could. They were expensive. Pretty much a specialty item if you wanted something decent that fit. He didn't want to spend that much money on something he'd never wear again, nor did he want to alter his good suits so severely they couldn't be fixed. 

The other one of the two suits he'd had altered was currently being tried on. The jacket lay on the bed. The pants were pulled up and they gaped open at the top. He just couldn't do it. He just couldn't get them zipped and buttoned. He'd been able to do it yesterday just barely. Okay, so he'd break down and do it. He'd buy some paternity clothes. But what was he going to wear right now? 

Ten minutes later, he was pulling out of the driveway, dressed in sweats and a big blue dress shirt. The neck would gape if he'd button it up, but he rolled up the sleeves and left it unbuttoned. He had a poptart in one hand and had tossed a tie in the passenger seat. He'd stop and try and buy some clothes after his appointment. 

Miraculously, traffic seemed to part in his wake, flowing smoothly wherever he went, and he was early for his appointment. He had about twenty minutes to blow. He walked a block or two and came across a shop he remembered called, "Motherhood/Fatherhood." 

He wandered through aisles of women's clothes and baby stuff, suddenly acutely aware that he didn't have so much as a single diaper bought for this baby. He hadn't even thought about where he was going to put the baby, which room was going to be the nursery. It was the larger concerns like how he was going to work after the baby was born, or how soon they were going to force him out of the field and into a desk job that had kept him awake nights. He wondered maybe if he'd have to get out of law enforcement completely, and if so, what could he do with his life. 

The men's paternity clothes section was a tiny corner of the back. There were three, four racks and a couple of display tables. From his first glance, Doggett could tell that most everything was far too casual for daily life at the Bureau. He picked out one pair of jeans and a red plaid shirt for weekend wear. There was only a small display rack of suits and he pawed through it quickly. Nothing in his size. Nada. Zilch. He pushed the hangers back into place in frustration. An employee, a nice looking young woman, stopped. 

"Did you need help finding anything, sir?" she asked. 

"I thought you guys were high end. I need a suit. Couple of suits. For work. I'm not seeing anything," Doggett said. "Assuming you had my size, which you don't, this is crap. For this price I could get Italian wool in a normal suit." 

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Paternity clothes are a specialty item and that does drive the price up unfortunately. You know, I know that a lot of our male customers, when they need suits, they just have a regular suit altered to fit. I can give you the name of a tailor who can do alterations or even custom make a suit. Hold on, I'll be right back.." 

The clerk wandered towards the back room and while he waited, Doggett dug through the pants, looking for something a little bit more formal than the khakis that seemed to dominate the racks. If he didn't find something soon, he was going to have to go into work in sweatpants today. 

Another man stepped into the section. He didn't appear to be pregnant, but maybe he might not be showing yet. Just having better planning skills than Doggett did. The man gave Doggett a strange look. Not quite suggestive, not entirely like Doggett was being cruised, but something like it. Doggett ignored the guy and went back to the rack. Not half a moment later, the clerk was back. But she didn't turn to Doggett immediately, but rather to the other guy. 

"You were told you couldn't return to the store," she said to the guy. "If you don't leave now, I'll have to call the police. I mean it." 

The guy sneered at the clerk, then shrugged. Only then did he stroll leisurely to the front of the store. 

Only once the guy was out of the story, the bells on the door jingling behind him did the clerk turn to Doggett. "I'm very sorry about that, sir," she said. "I hope he wasn't making you uncomfortable." 

"Is he a regular troublemaker?" Doggett asked. 

"He seems to have a thing for pregnant guys. He's always in here trying to pick them up," the clerk said. "We had to ban him from the store for making other customers uncomfortable. Anyway, here's the tailor we recommend. Did you want me to ring up those jeans for you?" 

Doggett pocketed the card and checked his watch. "I'll be back. I've got an appointment," he said. 

He just barely made it to the right office building in time. Dr. Kosciusko's office was on the tenth floor and the elevator was slow coming down, so he was still a little late walking in. He stopped to sign in with the receptionist. Peter, though unfailingly warm and kind was a little fruity for Doggett's tastes, the kind of gay man that made Doggett hesitant to embrace the label for himself. Peter was one of those slight, sandy haired men who make up for their lack of physical presence with generous, even extravagant gestures. 

"Mr. Doggett, it's so good to see you again. And looking so well," Peter said. Peter was pregnant himself, with his third child. Peter stood up and hurried around the desk and suddenly Doggett found himself being hugged. And oddly, he liked it. He let himself be hugged. Maybe it was a sign that this pregnancy thing was changing him. Or maybe he was just a little bit too lonely. Doggett wondered if Peter was this warm to all of the patients or if he was a special exception and he'd been adopted like a lost puppy or something. "I was so worried for you when you first came to our office, but you're really settling into this. How's your little girl today?" 

"She's doing fine," Doggett said, thinking about how every time he'd woken up in the night, he could feel her fluttering around inside of him. If these early days were any sign, she was going to grow up to be a synchronized swimmer or something. 

"The doctor's running a little behind this morning," Peter said. "Why don't you just have a seat and he'll be with you as soon as he can." 

"You know, I was wondering, maybe you would have some suggestions about the best place to get some paternity clothes," Doggett asked. 

"I was wondering. The ensemble is little casual for your usual, sweetie. Here," Peter said. He turned to dig in a file cabinet and eventually pulled out a sheet of paper that he handed it to Doggett. "I've put together a list of my favorites. Whatever you do, don't go to that place down the street. Not only are we segregated to a tiny corner in the back of the store, they charge seventy five for the same pair of jeans that they sell for fifty in the women's section. It's ridiculous." 

"I noticed," Doggett said. 

He was going to retreat to one of the tastefully masculine brown leather chairs that filled the waiting area, but Peter said, "Why don't you go in to the private waiting room?" 

This office had the best reputation out of all the androcologists in the area. And part of the reason for that reputation was their discretion and regard for their patients' privacy. When Senator Garfield was pregnant, this had been the androcologist he'd chosen. Doggett had never rated one of the private waiting rooms before though. On the other hand, there was couple already waiting in the waiting room and that had never happened before. Through some magic, it was as if he was always the doctor's only patient. 

Doggett gave the couple a quick look as he made his way to the hallway that Peter had indicated. They were a heterosexual couple, which in this office was enough for some eyebrow raising. It was not unheard of though. If a woman was infertile, her androfecund husband might step in to do the job, with donor sperm, usually the woman's brother's. The man of the couple was handsome, dressed professionally in a suit that made Doggett jealous, with strong features and a brilliant grin that Doggett just caught a flash of. The woman of the couple was a petite redhead, also dressed professionally, in a well tailored pantsuit. The brilliant grin was obviously directed at her. The man wasn't obviously pregnant, but it was probably early for him. 

Doggett found the private waiting room as he mused about the couple, more than slightly envious. He had no regrets about the path he'd taken, but that didn't mean that he didn't feel an occasional, intense loneliness at the times he realized that not all pregnant men were having to go through this alone. 

There was a pair of the same brown leather chairs in the private waiting room. A bottle of Evian was set on a small table. The latest issues of Sports Illustrated, Car and Driver, Field and Stream, GQ and the Advocate filled the magazine rack by the chairs. There was a desk as well, with an obvious plug in and dataport for a laptop. The walls were bottle-green and it was all cultivatedly masculine. 

Doggett waited. Peter came in a moment later and asked, "Do you want some tea, sweetie? We've got a nice ginger peppermint I just bought." 

"No, thanks," Doggett said. Herbal tea? What was next? Next thing the doctor would be telling him not to eat red meat. 

After Peter had gone, Doggett studied the list of shops. It wasn't just a list, but annotated with price ranges and personal comments on the type of clothes available. Most of the 'shops' listed seemed to be internet only. Of the actual brick and mortar stores, one seemed to be his best bet- Becker's Specialty Clothiers. Fine clothes for men. Peter had added that though they were expensive, their claims that they had suits to fit every man were utterly true. Okay, so that would be the next stop after here. The other shops on the list might be worth it to pick up jeans or other stuff like that. 

When he'd waited half an hour and was just about to give up and try and reschedule, Peter looked in. "I'm sorry to keep you so long, sweetie. Dr. Kosciusko is ready for you finally." 

Doggett was led into a fairly standard doctor's office. The usual gown was draped over the examination table already. "I'll just let you get ready for the doctor," Peter said as he slipped out. 

Doggett was changed into the gown and ready when the knock on the door came. A moment later, the doctor entered. Dr. Tad Koskiusko was about forty-five, hearty and vigorous. The kind of guy who played on his college's football team while still managing to be scarily brainy. He was not andro-fecund himself, but he'd said to Doggett once, "When was the last time you met a pediatritian that was a child?" Dr. Koskiusko had studied with Dr. Jo Fischer, the pioneering androcologist who'd been the first to champion the idea that an androfecund man had just as much chance of having a healthy natural delivery as a woman did. Doggett hated him thoroughly, personally speaking, yet had never stopped feeling grateful that the doctor had been able to accept him as a patient, just because his reputation was the best in the area, period. 

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Doggett?" Koskiusko asked, heartily. "Is the morning sickness still bothering you?" 

"Only a little, in the morning," Doggett said. 

"Good, good," Koskiusko said. Then he proceeded to do all the usual doctorly things, with little explanation or talk. He touched Doggett freely wherever, without apology or asking permission. The doptone was ice cold on Doggett's belly. After a while, he finally said, "Most everything looks good, Mr. Doggett. But I'll be honest, I'm a little concerned about your blood pressure." 

"How concerned is a little concerned?" Doggett asked. 

"I'm not ready to prescribe bedrest yet," the doctor said. "But you should be talking with your employers about the possibility that you'll need to take your family leave early." 

"I only have twelve weeks paid leave," Doggett said. That was something he didn't like to think about. If he used up too much of it before he gave birth, he'd be going back to work that much sooner. 

"Most employers are willing to consider it medical leave or disability leave if you're confined to bedrest," Koskiusko said. "But worry about that when you come to it. We'll just monitor it for the moment. I'll want you to schedule to come in and get your blood pressure taken by my assistant once a week." 

Like he had the time to do that. Koskiusko must have heard the disgust in Doggett's sigh, because he added, "I know it seems like a tremendous bother, Mr. Doggett, but even among the high risk category of andro-pregnancy, you're a particularly high risk. You're forty and this is your first pregnancy, following a late life Change. My job is to make sure that both you and your baby conclude this pregnancy in the best possible health. I'd hope you think that half an hour a week is not too high a price to pay for that." 

Doggett was shamed after that and he looked down at his bare feet. "Of course not," he said. 

"Good. I'll want you to monitor yourself. The instant you start to retain any water, get any signs of it like puffy ankles, call the office," Koskiusko said. 

Doggett was able to get out of there soon and head to the other side of town where the specialty clothing shop was. He'd somehow, from the description, been expecting something exclusive looking. Instead, he pulled up at the right address and it was just another store in a strip mall with a couple of big box stores. He parked his truck and headed in. 

The shop itself was about the size of a medium grocery store and packed with rack after rack of suits. Hand-painted signs hung from the ceiling grid overhead indicated directions to various specialties in the store. Big and tall to the left. Athletic cut to the right. "Napoleon" sizes straight back. Doggett wandered around, hoping to find the section he was looking for. Or an employee to show him. Though the store had a number of customers, pawing through the long racks of gray, black, blue and brown woolens, it appeared a plague had struck down every employee on site. 

Eventually he did wander across one, a young man pushing a whole rack of suits, obviously intending to go stock. But when he caught sight of Doggett he stopped and said, "You look like you could use some help." 

"Paternity clothes?" Doggett asked. 

"Sure, follow me," the young man said, pushing the rack again, heading towards the back of the store. "Just like our logo says, we fit every man. If we don't have something in stock to fit you, we'll do free alterations and have them to you by the end of the week. What size?" 

Doggett named his sizes and was led to a rack. The young man immediately began pulling suits off. A couple were held up, then put back on the rack. In the end, about five suits were put into Doggett's hands. 

"Try those on for size," he was told. "Dressing room is over there." 

Doggett was slipping the second one on when his phone rang. He struggled to pull it out of his jacket pocket and pull up the suit pants at the same time. "Doggett," he said into it. 

"John, how was the doctors?" asked Laurel McKinnon, his ASAC. She was an older woman, nearly fifty, with two adult children. She was tough and had struggled to become an agent while her kids were growing up, so she didn't put up with a lot because of that. Definitely she didn't put up with slackers or excuse makers. 

He thought about what Laurel would say if she heard what Koskiusko had said to him. He didn't want to get taken out of the field a minute sooner than he had to. So he lied, "Everything's fine." 

"I know we agreed you'd have the morning off, but I'd like it if you could come in as soon as possible." 

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he said. "I'm in Tyson's Corner." 

The first suit he'd tried on didn't work, but this second one he was pulling on as he talked seemed like it would do. 

"There's a new case," Laurel said. "Missing girl, age twelve, taken from her home last night. We'll be meeting for the briefing in an hour. Uh...John, I want you to know before the briefing starts. I'm giving the point on this one to Peterson." 

"What? What kind of bullshit is that?" he couldn't help but ask. 

"John, it's nothing personal. Trust me, it's just that this investigation looks like it might be stretching out a while, and so I need someone who's going to be around." 

"You move people around on cases all the time," he protested. 

"John, be reasonable," she said. "How much longer am I going to be able to keep you in the field? Probably not much longer. Maybe it might be easier if we transition you right now to an internal position. Are you even going to want to do field work once that baby is born?" 

"I'll be in for the briefing," he said, ignoring what she'd said. "You give the lead to whoever you need to give it to. But I'm still in on this case." 

Missing persons, especially children, was his specialty, a near obsession that had been sparked with the disappearance and death of his son Luke. He couldn't have that taken away from him. There was still a lot he could do from a desk, that was true, but his heart was out in the field, looking for the lost. 

* * *

An hour later, he was parking the truck and getting out at the Hoover. He took his one new suit with him, planning to change in the restroom upstairs. As he reached the elevator, he heard a familiar voice behind him call, "Hey, Doggett." 

It was Agent Bob Waller, someone Doggett hadn't seen in months. He wouldn't have said they were friends, but Waller had always been real buddy buddy when they ran into each other. He was just one of those naturally friendly guys- every one's best buddy and pal. Waller caught up to him at the elevator and Doggett turned. 

"Woah!" Waller said, his eyes popping. "Um... Uh... Er... Wow... I never knew. Had no clue. Is this congratulations?" 

"Yeah," Doggett said. "You could say that." 

"Who's the lucky other guy?" Waller asked. 

"Not involved," Doggett said, sounding calm about it, but inwardly wincing. "I'm in this on my own." 

"I always knew you had balls, Doggett," Waller said. "But this is...wow. I have to say, I'm impressed. Congratulations. I, uh, have to go." 

Then Waller slipped away in the direction of the garage. This was the usual kind of reaction Doggett had had from fellow agents finding out about his condition. It seemed like he was the only male agent of the FBI who'd ever been pregnant. He'd done a little research. Hoover had personally fired an andro-fecund agent during the fifties, one of the early, brave men who'd come into public view with their new mutation. But the FBI had come a long way since then and it was illegal to fire someone from a federal job for that reason. 

Doggett made it to his office, dressed properly, in just enough time. He stopped to look at the ultrasound picture he had framed and sitting on his desk. Just barely visible was the shape of his baby. He traced a finger around her head, then turned away to go get briefed on the current status of someone else's precious little girl gone missing. 

* * *

Mulder's head was swimming. He'd been buried in case files all day, except for the brief periods they'd taken to go interview androcologists. He was planning a visit to Heidi Gomez and some of the victim's families tomorrow. This was an early, but critical stage of his process. He had to immerse himself in all possible information if he was going to form that connection with the killer. If he was going to be able to build his profile so accurately, it would point to the guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. Eyebrow high stacks of files, police reports, autopsy reports, were all at his elbow. 

Scully dropped a bag on his desk. "Dinner," she said. "I feel a bit bad. I dragged you into this case. Anything so far? Any connections between the victims?" 

"Almost all of them were single fathers to be," Mulder said. 

"But Jaime Gomez was married, so were a couple of the others," Scully said. 

"If you recall, he was separated from his wife at the time. She was none too happy that she now had proof of the adultery she'd been suspecting for years," Mulder said. There'd been a big, thick file on the Gomez's. The police had been called on them for domestic disturbances many times before Gomez had ended up dead. 

"So, what's our next step?" Scully asked. 

"We need to contact all of the doctor's patients, starting with the ones known to be single fathers to be," Mulder said. "We need to warn them to stay with friends or family for a while. That's more important than anything, reducing that risk. We don't want another man dead. I'm hoping that we can stop this monster before he kills again. Only..." 

"Only?" Scully asked. 

Mulder thought about the case files he'd spent so many hours going over today, the details spilling out of his mind now like produce out of the bright shiny stacks at the supermarket. In his imagination, blood splashed over the walls of the office, dripped crimson from the files. A body, belly ripped savagely apart, sprawled face down the floor of his mind. "Only his frequency appears to be increasing exponentially, along with the savagery of the attacks. He's escalating rapidly, Scully. We've got a week, maybe days, at most to find him before he kills again." 

* * *

There really wasn't that much point in staying any later, but Doggett did it anyway. It'd been made clear to him that his only part in this investigation was to man a phone, and that could be done by anyone. Laurel had been by earlier to tell him to go home, but he stubbornly sat at his desk, waiting for the Knox county sheriff's office to get back to him, even as he started to drowse. Maybe Laurel was right, that he needed his rest, but he wasn't going to admit it. 

As he waited, he looked at the ultrasound of his daughter. This was the really early one, and unless you knew what you were looking for, it was hard to see the form in the midst of all the medium toned blotches. But he'd trained himself to see the small hands, the curve of her back. It'd be worth it, he thought, tracing her head again with a finger. Worth putting up with all of this BS to see her alive and in the world. 

Laurel sighed as she caught sight of Doggett still sitting at his desk. She homed in on him, heading right to his desk like a homing missile. 

Laurel was a big woman, tall, with the remains of an athletic figure. She dressed in no-nonsense black all the time, a contrast to her silvery gray hair. The combination gave her a certain air of authority that in combination with a kind of stern maternal appearance had reassured parent after parent. 

"John, go home," she said, impatiently. "It's eight. I told you to go home an hour ago." 

"We're running this thing round the clock, Laurel," he said. "I should be here. I don't want special treatment." 

"It's not special treatment," she said. "Okay, it is. But for good reason. You're not going to do anyone any good if you run yourself ragged." 

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm not exactly running here. I'm pretty much chained to this desk." 

Laurel pulled up a spare chair to beside his desk and said, "We should talk, John. Because I know this is hard on you. No doubt you didn't expect anything would really change when you got pregnant. I know I didn't and I should have known better. You know that I've been through a lot of what you're going through. I had my babies and right up until my oldest's birth, I didn't see why I should slow down, why I should step out of the line of fire. But it changes once you have that baby in your arms. You're going to be a single father, John. I was a single mother when my oldest was born. That baby will have only you to depend on. You can't be flying across country and leaving her alone three months after she's born. You can't leave her open to the possibility she'll be left alone in the world if some operation goes bad. I'm sorry. But you elected to hop on the baby track. You'll be able to hop back off after a while, but for now, your options have changed and that's just the way it is. It's the truth and you know I wouldn't tell it any other way except exactly as it is." 

It was one of the things he'd always liked about Laurel. She called them like she saw them, a spade was a spade. And she'd sort of been in the same spot where he was standing. Not exactly. Female field agents weren't exactly plentiful when she'd come on board at the Bureau twenty five years ago. It'd been a struggle for her to get back to where she'd been as her kids grew up. Only Doggett didn't have the twenty years to get back on track. Twenty years, he'd be thinking about retiring. 

"I'll think about what you said," he said. It seemed to be the only acceptable answer. He wasn't about to admit that she was right. But she wouldn't be making this all up either, he was willing to cede that point. 

"Good, at least think about it, before it hits you in the ass, like it did me. I like you, John. I'd hate to see you get knocked on your ass like that. And will you go home already?" she asked. "That baby's tired, even if you aren't." 

"Yes, ma'am," he said, starting to close up his files and clear off his desk. He handed her a stack of them. "Knox County is supposed to be giving me a call back on a disappearance they had two years ago, similar MO, similar circumstances." 

"Goodnight, John," Laurel said, taking the files he handed her. 

Less than a hour later, he was pulling into his driveway. He'd had to stop at the store and buy some groceries. That was another pain of this pregnancy. His usual diet of microwave dinners was out. It was bad enough he rarely had time for a proper lunch, but he tried to make a point out of cooking something approaching a nutrutious dinner. He felt justified in his usual poptart breakfast, because an unfrosted strawberry poptart was one of the few things that didn't set off a second round of morning sickness in the morning. 

As he started up the countertop grill, he checked phone messages. Only one, from Peter, reminding him of his appointment to get his blood pressure checked. Nothing from his mother. He'd been hoping. 

He paused in dinner prep to call. He dialed her familiar number. She either wasn't home or she was letting the machine pick up, because he got her message inviting him to leave his name and number and day he called. 

"Hi, Mama. It's John. I know you're still probably upset at me. I know it's a pretty big thing, this baby and uh, all the changes in my life," he said. "Anyway, I just wondered if you got the ultrasound picture I sent down. Your granddaughter is doing fine. I just thought you'd want to know that. Okay. I'll call again in a couple of days. Maybe you'll be ready to talk then." 

Then he crashed the handset of the phone down into the cradle. Damn it, why did he even try? Just because his mother was his only close family member left didn't mean she should affect him like this. He should be able to say to hell with her if she couldn't at least accept this. It was her preacher and her religion that had caused her to cut off contact with him. Her particular brand of conservative, Christian, God-fearing, old-time religion said he was an abomination. That even if God made him this way, he shouldn't have gotten pregnant, because it meant ipso facto that he'd been involved in sex with another man, and that was sin, dark, grievous sin. Doggett just kept hoping that she'd warm up relations someday, if only he could cause those grandmother genes to kick in at full force. 

He turned his back on the phone and back to rinsing salad greens in the sink. Salad was the easiest way to get vegetables that were something he'd eat. If only the doctor hadn't cautioned him off of blue cheese salad dressing, because of possible listera risk. 

The phone rang and he dropped the sinks's spray wand in his hurry to answer. Maybe his mother had thought his message through. 

"Hi, John," the female voice said. It wasn't his mother though. It was his ex-wife, Barbara. Ever since she'd found out he was pregnant, she'd been a semi-friendly presence in his life, as if she thought like she should be his friend, but she wasn't quite sure what she should do about it. Like it was her obligation to be supportive or something. For his part, he wished she'd just quit it with feeling obligated, because he didn't need that kind of support. 

"Hi, Barb," he said. He'd never even intended for her to know. But he'd been on a case that had taken him to New York, and he'd given in to nostalgia and gone for dinner at one of the restaurants they'd used to go to together. He'd run into her there and she'd taken one look at him and she'd known, even though he was just barely showing. Ever since then, she was calling all the time, just to keep in touch. Even though previously, she'd pretty much never called. They were divorced for lots of good reasons, not the least of which was that by the time they'd gotten to that point, they didn't even like each other any more, much less love each other. 

"I just wanted to let you know that I've packed up and sent some of Luke's old baby things that I had floating around the house. I know you said you were having a girl, but I picked the most neutral ones. I guess if it's too hard for you, you could just donate them or something. Or if you wanted all new things, I'd understand. You know, if you wanted the crib, or the high chair, you could drive up here and pick them up," she said. She sounded hesitant, as if it was important for him to be pleased with her. 

"Thanks, Barb," he said. "I appreciate that." 

"Are you okay?" she asked. "And your little girl?" 

"We're fine," he said. He'd gone back to rinsing his greens as he talked. He tried to pretend as if it were the most normal thing in the world, to be talking about your pregnancy with your ex-wife, the woman who bore your first child. The one that they'd lost. "The doctor said he was worried about my blood pressure, just a little. I've got to go get it measured once a week." 

"He must be worried about pre-eclampsia," Barb said. "You're watching how much salt you're eating. I know you, John." 

"Yeah," he said. "The doctor curbed my salt tooth long ago." 

"Good," she said. "I don't have long to talk, but if you need anything or you have any questions you want to ask someone who's been there, just call. Okay?" 

"Okay," he said, thankful to be done with this call. It was awkward to say the least to be this friendly with his ex, who was his ex for very good reasons, and while they hadn't exactly parted in acrimony, they hadn't talked to each other at all since the decree had been made final, until she'd run across him in that restaurant. It was almost like she felt sorry for him. But also like she wanted a part of this and he wasn't prepared to give it to her. He owed her precisely nothing. It'd be different if Luke were still alive, but he wasn't. 

As he was about to sit down to his salad and steak, he heard a rustle in the bushes outside. It didn't just startle him, but somehow, it caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand straight up. He hurried back to the hallway to the locked table he kept his gun in. He fumbled as he turned the key in the lock, but his hands were steady by the time he took gun and holster out of the felt lined drawer. He hurried out to the back yard, but by the time he'd reached it, there was no one there, beyond Mrs. Ferber's dog in the yard next door, yipping its moplike little head off. 

"Shut up, already," he said, in annoyance, to it. He'd never been sure if the miniature bundle of canine nerves and hair was a female or male. It was called Bunny though it couldn't have been much less like a rabbit. Doggett scouted around the yard, looking to see if maybe any of his yard furniture had been taken. Nope, quick inspection told him. He shrugged and turned to go back into the house. But something made him keep the gun by his side, not put it back into the table where it belonged. 

* * *

At just past midnight, an hour after Doggett had finally managed to fall asleep, the shrill cry of the phone pulled him out of sleep. First the light had to go on, then he could fumble for the phone. Still half asleep, he guided the receiver to his ear and said, sleepily, "John Doggett." 

The person who answered sounded like Peter, from the doctor's office. He was terrified, that much was obvious from his first words. "John, I'm really sorry to bother you so late like this, but I couldn't think of anyone else I could call," he said. "It's just that I keep hearing someone in my yard and I'm all alone in the house tonight. John, my John, took the kids to his mother's for the week so I could have some time to myself. And before you say, I should just call the cops, I have, several times this evening and they keep not finding anything. The last couple of times they've gotten really pissed. One of them even told me it figured that I'd be such a sissy and that I was hysterical." 

"Hold on," Doggett said, still trying to figure out what was going on. "You think you've got a prowler in the yard? What did you want me to do about it? Aren't you all the way in Maryland?" 

Doggett vaguely remembered Peter once saying something about living in Chevy Chase. It seemed to him like Peter had just about the perfect life. Two kids and a third on the way. A spouse who Peter adored. Nice house in the suburbs. Just about everything. 

"I just thought maybe you could tell me what to say to the police so that they'll take me seriously," Peter said. He sounded about on the verge of tears, and though Doggett understood and sometimes, due to the erratic hormones of pregnancy, had been there himself too much for comfort lately, he was seriously irritated for having his sleep interrupted for a situation he could do nothing much about. Doggett grabbed his watch off the nightstand and took a look. Much too late for this kind of thing. 

"It's just that these people were at the office today," Peter said. "From the FBI, where you work too. They were asking questions about some of our patients who died. And they warned me. They think someone out there is murdering pregnant men." 

"What?" Doggett sat straight up. Now, Peter might be, as the cops said, a little hysterical. But nobody from the Bureau would have come poking around like that, with possible court orders to open medical records even, not unless there was some serious grounds for those kinds of suspicions. "Look, if you think you're in danger, you need to call the cops again. The hell with 'em if they think you're hysterical. If you think there's someone out there, you're probably right. I'll come over and talk to them, set 'em straight." 

Actually, in the background over the phone, Doggett could hear several dogs in the neighborhood barking. Dollars to doughnuts, someone who didn't belong in the neighborhood was there. Peter was in the middle of giving Doggett his address when one of the dog's barks increased in frenzy and there was the sound of a big crash, glass breaking. Peter cried out, "Oh, shit!" 

"Peter, hang up and call 911," Doggett said. He didn't hear a reply from Peter, nor did he hear Peter hang up. Instead, there were the sounds of a scuffle. It sounded bad. Screaming. The sounds of something hard making impact with flesh and bones. 

Doggett was out of bed in an instant, grabbing his cell phone off the dresser. He called 911, still keeping the other phone on, but before 911 picked up, someone on Peter's end of the line had hung up. 

"This is Special Agent John Doggett. I need you to send a squad car to a location I was in contact with on the phone," he said as soon as he heard a voice. 

* * *

By the time Doggett arrived, there were multiple squad cars pulled up to the house, the whole scene made even more surreal by the strobing of their blue and red lights. Doggett knew it was the right house because it was the same one you could see in the picture of his kids on Peter's desk at the office. It was a rambling ranch style house: one story, big picture windows in the front, what looked to be a nice garden out front. The daffodils were blooming in a row up the front walk, bobbing in the same stiff wind that whipped John's coat around his legs. Even from this distance, Doggett could see that one of the picture windows was broken. 

There was also an ambulance, but no sign of the EMTs. It couldn't have been more than half an hour after Peter's call had ended. He pulled up as close as he could get to the scene and got out of the car, feeling a horribly emptiness in the pit of his stomach, a terrible feeling. A bad vibe. He pulled his shield case out of his pocket and walked up to the cop who was watching the perimeter of the scene. 

The cop looked at him and obviously didn't see anything beyond the pregnant belly. Another cop about twenty feet away, as if Doggett wouldn't hear, muttered, "Another knocked up faggot." 

The cop he'd walked up to heard, and snorted a little, and for some reason, that pissed Doggett off even more than the guy who'd made the crack in the first place. 

"That'd be Special Agent Faggot to you," Doggett said, snapping open his shield for the cop to see. "I called this one in. What's happening?" 

The cop stood a little straighter after that and while he didn't apologize for the slight, he was paying attention now. "The perp sure made quick work of it. It was fifteen minutes between the time your call to 911 was logged and the time our first man hit the scene. The guy wasn't just gone, but he'd taken the time to really do a piece of work inside the house. I haven't been inside, but I understand it's bloody." 

For a cop to say it was bloody meant Doggett better prepare himself. Fifteen minutes? How the hell had it taken a whole fifteen minutes to get police to the scene? He'd look into that later though. 

"The EMTs were too late?" Doggett asked. 

"You could say that. Guy must have gotten the jugular or something. The vic bled out real quick. Blood's everywhere." 

Doggett thought he'd steeled himself but when he got inside and took a look at the still figure under the sheet, his stomach started dancing and he was afraid he was going to lose it all over Peter's body. 

Or what was left of it. It was nothing more than a man shaped pile of ashes. How could that have happened in such a short period of time? He hurriedly pulled the sheet back down and turned away. "Dear God," he said. 

Still, he couldn't help lifting a corner of the sheet again and taking another look, just a peek, because he hadn't believed what he'd seen. It must have been his eyes playing tricks on him. 

The body was whole. What he saw was bad enough, but it was no pile of ashes. He dropped the sheet again. 

* * *

The call had come from the Chevy Chase PD at about one, when Mulder was still at his desk, drowsing over the case files for the murders, still seeking those elusive clues that would lead him to that connection with the monster. Scully had long gone home, but she wasn't surprised to get his call. 

"There's another one, Scully," he said, heart breaking because he hadn't been fast enough, because he hadn't done enough. 

They made it to the crime scene before two. When they stopped at the perimeter to flash their badges, the cop said, "One of your guys is here already." 

"Yeah?" Mulder asked, wondering who would be poaching on this, or how he could possibly be involved. 

"He called it in. I guess he's a friend of the vic or something," the cop said. "He was on the phone with him when the break in happened." 

"Okay, thanks for the heads up," Mulder said. 

They walked up the driveway to the attached garage. Mulder took in the details of the house- the all-American ranch styling. It could have been anywhere in the country. It didn't strike him as the kind of place a single parent to be could afford. Maybe some kind of separation was causing the man to live by himself for a while? 

The wind which had been whipping Mulder's trench coat around finally resolved itself into a storm, with a sudden burst of heavy rain. 

As they started running towards the house, rain pouring onto their heads, sending freezing cold runnels down the back of Mulder's neck, chilling him, adding physical to the ways he'd been chilled this night. 

"Well, there goes a lot of valuable evidence," Scully said as they reached the front door of the house. The stoop was little more than a single concrete slab, the overhang protecting the stoop just an extension of the roof. A small boys BMX was thrown heedlessly to the side of the stoop, half in the shrubs. So a small boy probably lived here. That meant the victim almost certainly had had one child already. But where was the child then? 

The homicide detective, a dour and humorless, almost to the point of the cadaverous, man named Morton greeted them at the door. Mulder had helped the man on a case before, which was going to make this easier. Morton didn't give a shit how Mulder got them, so long as answers were forthcoming and they led to an arrest with enough evidence for a hope at a conviction. 

"Thanks for coming over, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully," Morton said. 

"I came down right away. Soon as you called," Mulder said, holding out his hand for Morton to shake. "What have you got for me?" 

"This isn't up your usual alley, Agent Mulder," Morton said. "Not real mysterious how this guy was killed. Only thing mysterious is why. I'd have called the Bureau for help, even if you weren't on the lookout for this MO. This is the second homicide of a pregnant man in town in three months. Maybe it's only two, but it's starting to look like a pattern to me. And I don't like the looks of it," Morton said. His tight, thin lips quirked for a moment and he shuddered a little. 

"You should have a chat with some detectives in other cities near here, because it's not two, it's seventeen in the greater DC area. And that's a pattern so big I can't believe anyone didn't see it before," Mulder said. 

"I think maybe people don't want to see it," Scully said. 

"People aren't always the most comfortable with men having babies. Some folks still remember when they didn't. My older brother is, you know. I've got a little nephew that way. I guess he's not so little anymore. Turned eighteen last week and joined the Navy. Anyway, let's see what we've got. With this rain, I figure tracks in the yard are a lost cause, but we've got a good muddy foot print on the rug." 

Morton led Mulder and Scully into the house, talking as he walked. "The victim is one Peter Van Buren. About as close to married as two men can get to a man named John Morris. They've got two children, eight and four. The husband and kids were up at Morris' mothers for the week apparently, though we called and he's apparently already en route back home." 

Mulder only half listened though, because his eyes had immediately fallen on a man standing next to the body. The man was staring at the sheet covering it, his forehead gathered in complex knot of wrinkles, his eyes so full of wise sadness that Mulder couldn't help but be drawn to them. It was the man Mulder had seen this morning at Dr. Koskiusko's. The one that Peter, who must be the same Peter as at the office, had fussed over. The man was tall, almost as tall as Mulder. He would have been lean, even slim, except for his rounded, pregnant belly. His gun and holster were visible, clipped to the waist of his sweat pants, right on the side of his belly. He noticed Mulder looking at him and stared right back. The man was angry, defiant in a way, but also seemed to be drawn to look at Mulder. Their eyes met and for a moment, Mulder forgot where he was as something like a bolt of lightning traveled up and down his spine and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. 

"Special Agent John Doggett," the man said, walking up to Mulder. He held out a hand and Mulder shook it. Doggett's grip was firm, his hand warm and their touch lingered a little longer than just politeness dictated. Mulder and he stared at each other a moment. Doggett's eyes were intensely blue, steely. Beautiful in their soulfulness. 

Mulder spoke first after a long silence between them, "Fox Mulder. My partner Special Agent Dana Scully." 

"The Fox Mulder?" Doggett asked. "Spooky Mulder? The profiler?" 

Mulder forced himself to keep his face neutral, but really it wasn't so bad coming from this man. There was more respect than awe, more admiration than fear. "So I've been called," he said. 

"You're hunting the guy that did this?" Doggett asked. "You're going to hunt him down like the monster that he is?" 

"I am," Mulder said, meaning this as truly as if it were any solemn vow. "Any information you have might be essential. I saw you this morning at Dr. Koskiusko's." 

"I had a checkup," Doggett said. 

"I heard you called this one in, that you were on the phone with the deceased at the time of the break in." 

Doggett winced, as if at unpleasant memory. "I didn't know Peter that well. He was just the receptionist at my androcologist. But he called me sometimes, just to check up on me and let me talk to him about things. He was always friendly, nicest guy I've probably ever known. Always glad to answer any questions I had about what it was going to be like. He called me at about twelve-thirty, said he thought there was a prowler in the yard. That he'd been calling the cops all evening and they were getting sick of him calling. He said that the cops had told him he was hysterical. Then there was a crash. That must have been the picture window breaking. Then there were sounds like a body being hit with a blunt object." 

Scully had lifted up the sheet and was looking at the body. She spoke up, saying, "I see signs of blunt trauma to the head. Just a guess in this bad light, but I'd say it seems consistent with a baseball bat. Three or four blows. But that would be just to subdue the victim. Death seems to be from massive blood loss due to multiple deep knife wounds." 

Scully pulled the sheet up further so that Mulder could get a look. Doggett turned away, but Mulder squatted down close to the body which was lying on its side. Mulder's eyes drank in the details. The victim's shirt was slashed open down the front but he was otherwise still dressed. Peter's hair was a mousy brown, almost blond, now brownish-red in places with blood. There was one broad slash across the throat, hardly visible for the blood. What was left of the shirt was also soaked in crimson down the front. But what would stick in Mulder's mind forever, what really burned itself onto the back of his eyes was down lower. What Mulder saw nearly turned his stomach. Nearly caused him to lose it in a way that not even child murder cases had. 

In the other corpses, the other cases caused by this killer, it'd been a few simple stab wounds to the abdomen, penetrating to the uterus. In this case, Peter's body was butchered, almost eviscerated. The uterus was exposed, ruptured, with bloody chunks of tissue that threatened to resolve themselves into a fetus if Mulder examined them too closely. 

"The cops were slow and the guy was fast," Doggett said. "We're talking fifteen minutes from the time I called, the cops were here and he was gone. And he still managed to do... all of that and get away clean. Seems almost impossible." 

"Mulder," Scully said. "I'll sit in on the autopsy. I don't think we'll find anything surprising here, but it's worth looking at." 

The coroner's office arrived finally, carrying a body bag. They started to turn the body so that it was completely face up in preparation for loading into the body bag. Standard procedure. But Scully called out, "Wait. Stop. Don't do that." 

The two men moving the body paused and looked at Scully like she'd lost a few marbles. 

"See those drops of blood there?" Scully indicated a couple of smallish drips on Peter's jeans, on the back side. 

"So?" one coroner asked. "There's blood everywhere." 

"Yeah, but there's no way that the splash pattern from the victim could have put that there," Scully said. "Look, this guy who did this, he might have cut himself coming in the window or something. Any chance we might have at catching him depends on finding something that was his, some hair, some blood, some something that places him here at this scene. Now, you're going to do everything possible to preserve that drop of blood, understand?" 

They grumbled, but they didn't continue moving Peter's body. 

"Mulder," Scully said. "I'm going to do my best to make sure that any and all physical evidence is preserved." 

"You need anything more from me tonight?" Doggett asked. "I should be getting home. Carrying a little J. Edgar around here can be kind of tiring. I feel like I could fall asleep on my feet, even with that in front of me." 

"Do you live by yourself?" Mulder asked, suddenly worried. The agent didn't wear a ring of any kind on his finger, had made no reference of anyone to get back to. 

"Yeah," Doggett said, sounding surprised. 

"You shouldn't go home alone then. This guy preys primarily on single men, or men who are at least home alone for extended periods. I believe he stalks them, hunts them, watches them, for days, maybe weeks before he makes his move. Takes them when they're most vulnerable. Do you have anyone you can stay with? A friend? Family in the area?" 

"No, no one," Doggett said. "Look, I can take of myself. I'm armed. I'm a federal agent." 

"And Cornelius Augustine was a DC city cop, patrolling the city's toughest neighborhoods before he got pregnant. He was killed in his own apartment seven months ago. His service weapon was stolen after it had been used on him," Mulder said, the case coming to mind instantly, the pictures from the case file, including a particularly vivid one of the spray pattern on the wall. "He was killed in bed. He was probably fast asleep at time of entry. You might be a federal agent but you still have to sleep. I really suggest you find someone to stay with. 

Scully had been listening along while she watched the Chevy Chase coroner's office prepare the body for transport more to her liking. The blood spot indicated was covered with plastic and taped off. Peter was lifted into the body bag in the same position he'd been found in. 

She piped up, "All things considered, maybe Skinner would arrange for a safe house for Agent Doggett." 

"Now, that's stupid," Doggett protested. "Look, I agree, if I had someone I could stay with, I'd be there, but I don't. But I'm not going to be locked away in a safe house while other people are out hunting this bastard." 

It was probably a monumentally bad idea, but some imp poked its head up and made a suggestion to Mulder. "I've got some friends who'd be glad to put you up as a favor to me. One of them's pregnant with his fourth child. One's his husband. They're sort of investigative journalists, government watchdogs and muckrakers. They live in the same big warehouse they work in with their kids and their work partner." 

* * *

Doggett didn't know how he'd been talked into it, but he was going to spend the rest of the night with some guys that Mulder called, "The Lone Gunmen." 

These guys' neighbors seemed to be the type of people who used warehouses for their real purpose, of holding goods, rather than any kind of loft, artistic or otherwise. The buildings, even in the sodium glare of street lights and parking lot lights, were grungy, hard used and worn down. This guy, this friend of Mulder's, had three kids already and a fourth on the way, and he was raising them in a place like this? What kind of wacko was he? Mulder had been hedging, very wary, as he'd described these people as investigative journalists. That in itself had set off Doggett's cop vibes, but at the moment, he was prepared to put up with just about anything to get some shut eye free from the prospect that some monster might be stalking him as he slept. 

Mulder was driving Doggett's truck, though only because Doggett himself was the first to admit that he just might fall asleep at the wheel. Scully, seemingly indefatigueable, had taken the bucar the pair of them had arrived in and followed the body to the coroner's office, ready to start the autopsy immediately. 

Doggett didn't realize he'd drifted off until he was startled awake by the truck coming to a complete stop. "Here we are," Mulder announced. 

Doggett tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes but it didn't do much good. They'd pulled up in front of a big, brick warehouse. No front door, per se, but there was a big pair of garage doors and to the side of that, a stoop and a smaller, battered metal door. 

Mulder stepped up to that, with Doggett at his heels. He knocked, then eventually called out, "Hey, guys, it's me." 

These guys who lived here must have been beyond paranoid. Doggett counted seven locks on the door, including six deadbolts. There was a sound of those being thrown back one by one, then finally the door was opened by a furious gnome. 

"Quiet, Mulder," the gnome whispered in a furious hush. "The kids are asleep. It took forever to get them to sleep tonight." 

"Your legendary baby-fu must be slipping, Melvin," Mulder said, grinning. 

"Baby-fu has no effect on a seven year old," the gnome said. He stepped aside to let them in and Doggett was able to get a better look at the gnome. Actually, he wasn't that short, though he could have found something to suit himself in the "Napoleon" section of that clothing store Doggett had been in earlier in the day. At the moment he was wearing a burgundy velvet dressing gown over stripped pajamas. 

"Frohike, this is Special Agent John Doggett, that I talked to you about over the phone. Agent Doggett, this is my friend, Melvin Frohike." 

"My house is your house," Frohike said, holding out a hand for Doggett to shake. There was something slightly suggestive in the handshake and the look Frohike gave Doggett, but one good glare seemed to set that straight. Chastened, Frohike led them down the stairs to the main section of their place. The big main room seemed to be divided into three areas. One area, there was shelf after shelf of technical gadgets and assorted electronic detritus, including seemingly dead computers. One area was given over to toys, the gadgety electronic toys that big boys loved to purchase for their little boys- remote control cars. There was a big construction, something like a crane gone crazy, tall as Doggett, built from an ultra-deluxe Erectorset. Baskets of legos. Some of the "toys" appeared to be very real electronics in the middle of being tinkered with. 

The third area was a more conventional work area, with computers and desks. At the moment, two of the desks were occupied. At one of the desks sat a very pregnant blond man, wearing paternity jeans and a "Ramones" t-shirt stretched tight across his big belly. He wore thick rimmed geek glasses and had sock covered feet propped up on the desk. He was watching the other desk's occupant work intently. 

At the other desk, a slight, small blond girl, in her early teenage years, typed furiously. She might have been pretty, but it was hard to tell, because she too wore thick rimmed glasses, making her look more or less like a feminine copy of the man who was obviously her father. It wasn't necessarily the best look for a little girl, reminding Doggett that he hoped his own little girl looked like her other father, not himself. 

"Jesus, Dad," she said after a while, not looking up to see the new arrivals. "I know I messed up, but this is just torture. It's not fair." 

"Fair, schmair, little girl," the blond said. "If you're going to be out there hacking with the big boys, you've got to be better than them or you're going to get caught. When you can break the encryption I put on the phones, then you can go out and play again. And trust me, Uncle Frohike is not going to be falling for your social engineering tricks this time." 

"Shouldn't she be asleep at this hour?" Doggett asked in a whisper. "You know. For school in the morning." 

"She's at school right now," Frohike said. He sounded proud of the girl, as if he'd given birth to her himself. "Langly, uh, home-schools. We tried the public school thing but it just didn't work out, especially not for Caroline there. She's just too smart, too different from the other kids. She's got it in her to be one of the great hackers." 

"Wait a minute. He's teaching his little girl to be a hacker? Isn't that illegal?" Doggett asked, suddenly sure that Mulder's friends were even weirder than the vibe he'd picked up on before. He'd let Mulder talk him into being dumped into the midst of wackos, that was almost for sure. The only thing was, he was just too tired to care much. His back was killing him and he needed to find some convenient horizontal surface and soon. 

"Nothing illegal is going on," Frohike said, but Doggett could almost hear the 'at the moment' hanging in the air. "And he's not teaching her to be a hacker. He's teaching her how to be a better one. She's the daughter of two great hackers. It's in her blood." 

"You're her..." Doggett started to ask. 

"Oh, no, no," Frohike said. "I just live here. I take no responsibility for any of it. Anyway, I understood from Mulder you were in serious need of some serious zs." 

"That's about the long and short of it," Doggett said, looking around the big space again. On second reflection, maybe it wasn't such a bad place to raise boys at least. It wasn't dirty, just cluttered. And it was a big space, plenty of room for running. 

"Frohike, okay if I settle down here and make some calls?" Mulder asked, pulling out his cell phone and gesturing with it questioningly. 

"Knock yourself out, buddy," Frohike said. Then he turned to Doggett and said, "This way. I'll get you set up." 

Doggett was too tired to resist. He let the little man lead him to what looked to be a guest bedroom. The bed was seeming about as good as anything ever had, so he lowered himself onto it and crawled under the blankets. Still, despite his tiredness, he couldn't get Mulder out of his mind as he fell asleep. Especially the intense, almost ferocious way Mulder had said, "I am." Doggett pushed the thought away, reached for a pillow to prop under his leg and tried to sleep. 

* * *

The first call Mulder placed was to his old friend, Danny, the man with the magic touch for getting information. 

"Danny, this is Mulder," he said after Danny, without complaint, like ever, picked up. Mulder sometimes wondered if Danny slept less than he did himself. Or if maybe there were actually two or three Danny's who did one life in shifts. Whatever, he'd never once sounded tired or like he'd been sleeping when Mulder called. "Look, I need you to do me a favor. Multiple 911 calls were placed this evening from (777)-555-4321. I want transcripts of all of those calls. Every one. Can you get them now? Call me paranoid, but I think the Chevy Chase PD probably doesn't want it to get out that they called a man who was murdered in his own house a few hours ago a hysteric." 

"I'm all over it like black on a goth, Mulder," Danny said. Mulder often suspected that Danny was bored by his usual requests and wanted something a bit more of a challenge. He sounded bored tonight for sure. "Anything else?" 

"That's all for tonight," Mulder said. "Thanks. Can you fax them to (777)-555-1313?" 

"You're too easy, you know that, Mulder?" Danny said. 

"That's not what you said last time. Anyway, thanks, Danny," Mulder said. 

"The usual will be waiting for me?" Danny said. 

Basketball tickets this time of year. Good seats. It was going to be expensive, but worth it probably. 

"Yeah, thanks again," Mulder said. He cut the call short, because Frohike had appeared, looking like the interrogation was about to begin. 

"What's going on out there, Mulder?" Frohike demanded. "You call this morning with a scary story, say not to leave Langly alone and now you show up, wanting to know if we have room at the inn for a pregnant narc. You want favors, you tell me what's going on." 

It was touching, to see how protective Frohike could get, like a pappa bear to this family. As far as Mulder could tell, Frohike was not sleeping with Langly and Byers, but otherwise, he seemed to have almost an equal share in that partnership. And God help the person who stood between Frohike and those kids. 

"You keep Langly at home and make sure things are locked up tight and you or Byers is with him at all times and I can pretty much guarantee that he'll be safe. This guy is preying on pregnant men who live alone or are alone for extended periods of time," Mulder said, hoping it sounded reassuring. "I'm sorry. I hope bringing Agent Doggett here isn't too much of an imposition. But he lives alone and I don't think it's wise he be by himself right now. I couldn't think of any place else to bring him and he doesn't have any place to go. I'd have stayed with him, but I have to work on catching this guy." 

"You're sure it's a guy?" Frohike asked. "Maybe this is some woman, pissed off that men are sticking their fingers into the one thing that's traditionally been only a female pie." 

"No," Mulder said. "Of that much I'm sure. My preliminary profile is suggesting an andro-fecund male, forty to forty-five, no successful pregnancies though. I believe he's acting out some traumatic event. A forced abortion from his early adult years, possibly even an abortion and hysterectomy. Back during those early years, it was fairly common for a hysterectomy to be considered medically necessary for a recently Changed man, whether he wanted it or not. Especially in the military, which I think our man was. Probably Marines. Maybe Army." 

"Yeah, I know," Frohike said, with a grimace. "But you don't see me acting out my trauma on innocent men." 

"Yeah, but you're not a homicidal maniac, Frohike," Mulder said, it not quite sinking in what Frohike had just said, until a moment later. Then Mulder wished a hole in the ground would just swallow him up. "Oh, my God, Frohike. I'm sorry. I didn't know." 

"No reason you should. I don't mention it," Frohike said. His hand had come to rest protectively on his lower abdomen. "I was in 'Nam at the time. In the Army. It was dark times and I hardly understood what was happening to me when the Change hit me. Most guys didn't. It was verboten to talk about in polite company. I didn't even know I could get pregnant. Not until the miscarriage. The army doctors had my uterus out before I knew what was happening. Standard military procedure back then. You think that's what happened to this guy?" 

"I believe so," Mulder said. It was the picture that came to his mind so strongly that it seemed almost worth it to comb through military medical records, looking for a combination of the procedure and the right age. He should be doing that right now. He should be doing something, not wasting time like this. He was about to make his excuses to Frohike and get back to his phone when he nearly jumped as arms were thrown around his neck from behind. 

"Uncle Mulder!" 

Mulder turned around and at the same time, a little blond girl wriggled around so he could hug her- Caroline, Langly's oldest daughter. He'd been there when she was born. He still remembered the day like it was yesterday, even though it was an unlikely thirteen years since. It'd been the first time he'd met the Gunmen as well. He'd been tracking down Suzanne Modeski, wanted for allegedly destroying a government lab and murdering her coworkers. He'd tracked her down to a warehouse, where she was in the company of the Gunmen, and was about to take her into custody when Langly had gone into a sudden, swift labor. Suzanne Modeski had slipped away and Caroline had been born on the gurney just before Langly had been loaded onto the ambulance. It'd been Mulder's first close experience with an andro-fecund man, one that had left him both uncomfortable yet fascinated by the whole thing, compelled by the idea that an obviously male body could do...that. 

"Hey, hey," he said, glad that she seemed to be feeling friendly at the moment, more like a child than her occasional bursts of 'I'm too cool for this' adolescent posturing. "How's my favorite would be felon?" 

She scowled at him. "You're just as bad as Dad. I'm not going to get caught and I'm not doing anything wrong." 

"That's just what Kevin Mitnick said," Mulder said, teasingly. She was a good bit overconfident and he was afraid sometime that she would get caught, that her chops weren't up to that of the Gunmen yet, not by lack of native talent, but simple lack of experience. She scowled hard at him and so he added, "Tell you what, they catch you, I'll make sure they don't tell the prosecutor that you can start world war three by whistling into the phone." 

With that, she jumped out of his arms saying, "That's it! That's it!" 

She darted away back to the phones and Mulder shrugged. It was hard to keep her attention on one thing for very long. Mulder was about to call out again, to check on Scully and see how she was doing with the old slicing and dicing. His phone rang. 

"Mulder?" It was Scully. 

"Yeah," he answered. "You have anything for me yet?" 

"Everything so far is just what it seems. The blood drop I found on his side is from another person. It's A positive. Mr. Van Buren was B positive. So, we're going to run PCR tests. Tox screen comes up clean. Cause of death was blood loss. The blows to the head wouldn't have been enough to kill. They weren't that damaging, just enough to subdue the victim. He seems to have been very careful about that. The Chevy Chase PD came across a baseball bat in the garage that had to be the one used. It's clean though, no prints. And they've determined that the unsub drove away in Mr. Van Buren's car. It was found abandoned in a supermarket parking lot about ten minutes away from the house. They're going over it right now, combing for fibers or anything at all." 

"So, he might even have passed the police on their way to the house," Mulder said. "None of the neighbors saw anything I take it?" 

"No," Scully said. "I'll get back to you with anything new. How's Agent Doggett?" 

"Sleeping," Mulder said. At least he hoped the man was sleeping. He seemed exhausted. Beyond that point even. Mulder couldn't help feeling a certain concern for the man, nor could he keep his mind from drifting to his memory of his first sight of the man, so solemn and sorrowful. 

"Which you should try yourself," Scully said. 

"Soon," Mulder said. "We have to stop this guy before he gets even one more." 

* * *

Doggett's first thought on waking was not that he was in a strange place, except in the sense that he didn't know where the bathroom was and that if he didn't find it soon, he just might disgrace himself. It was just the usual morning barf approaching, but it seemed to have greater than normal urgency. He threw himself out of bed and onto his feet. Out of the door and into the hallway was accomplished in just a moment, but the hallway was long, with lots of different doors, all closed. The bathroom might be any of them. 

Then one of the doors opened and a neat, almost dapper looking man, dressed in a suit, walked out. He took in Doggett and his condition with a knowing look and nod. He stepped across the hall to another door and opened it. 

"It's in here," the man said. 

Doggett looked in. A bathroom, with the expected amount of grunge in a household of mostly men. The toilet seat was already up even. He dived to his knees and put his head down. A few moments later he felt much better. He stood up. He turned on the faucet, scooped a bit of water into his mouth with his hands and rinsed out his mouth, then spat out the water. He felt much better instantly. He wondered if he dared brush his teeth. There were times where even just using a toothbrush could set off his gag reflex. 

Even in just a few moments though a line had gathered outside of the bathroom. Two little boys, one about seven, one about four were first, the littlest one doing the potty dance that Doggett recognized from once having had his own little boy. The dapper man from earlier stood next to the littlest, ready to shepherd him in the instant Doggett cleared out. 

A little further down the hall, Frohike, the gnome of the night before, was waiting his turn patiently. "Hey," he said, as Doggett passed. "Did you need some dry crackers to keep by your bedside. I know it works for Langly." 

"Nah," Doggett said. "Tried that. Tried all the tricks. But one barf in the morning and I'm good all the rest of the day." 

"You having a rough time with this?" Frohike asked, looking downwards in the general direction of Doggett's belly. The question was asked with such simple kindness that Doggett didn't take offense. And Doggett found himself liking the man instinctually despite the leer first thing last night. 

"At first," Doggett answered, touching his belly. He'd been feeling the gentle fluttering inside since he'd woken. His baby. His little girl. All that movement had to be a good sign. She was okay. "I was sick a lot at first, but it's a lot better now. We're doing all right." 

He wasn't actually sure of that. The more he thought about it, the more he was worried about this blood pressure thing and about the way that every time he saw the doctor, the guy hammered home how high risk this all was. 

"And you're going through this alone?" Frohike asked. "What kind of asshole abandons the guy he knocks up?" 

Not that it was any of Frohike's business. Not that Doggett cared what the gnome thought of him. But he said defensively, "The other guy doesn't know. I didn't tell him, because I didn't even know his name." 

It sounded much worse spoken out loud. That was actually the thing, the only thing, he regretted about this whole thing. That some day, he was going to have to tell his little girl he was knocked up by a total stranger, a man he didn't even know the first name of. He once would have said that the categories of slut, promiscuous, were meaningless, except as insults. But now that they could apply to him, he felt dirty. Guilty. Tainted somehow. 

* * *

The walls throughout the Gunmen's headquarters were thin. Mulder had heard Doggett get up, then bolt for the bathroom. Then he heard every heave and gag of Doggett's morning sickness. He finished up with his call just as Doggett was finishing up and running the faucet. Mulder couldn't help poking his head down the hall to the Gunmen's living quarters and listening as Frohike talked to the man. And watching as Doggett got defensive, folding his arms over his belly, as Frohike asked him about the baby's other father. Mulder couldn't quite account for the feeling of relief that swept over him as Doggett confessed that the baby's other father was an unknown, completely uninvolved. 

Mulder decided to intervene as he saw Frohike ask just one more question. The little man probably had the best intentions on the whole of the East Coast, but he might push it too far, maybe offer to do something illegal to find this guy who'd gotten Doggett pregnant. Actually, Mulder figured if Doggett had wanted to know, he could have found out easily enough. 

"Hey, Agent Doggett," Mulder said, loudly. "I was wondering if I could trouble you for a ride back to the Bureau so I can catch up to Agent Scully." 

"I really oughta stop by my house to shave, shower and change before I go into work," Doggett said, making an excuse. He obviously didn't want Mulder hanging around more than necessary. 

"You really shouldn't be alone," Mulder said. "Even for an hour or two. This guy is escalating faster than I anticipated, judging from last night's attack. I think he's frustrated that subsequent attacks haven't provided the kind of release that the first several did, so he's increasing the savagery and frequency, in hopes of getting the same kind of rush. I don't think it's unlikely that he knows you and where you live already. He's obviously been stalking people from Dr. Koskiusko's office." 

"There was this guy I ran into around Dr. Koskiusko's office," Doggett said. "He gave me the creeps. Like he was trying to pick me up or something, but worse. It was at the Motherhood/Fatherhood shop about a block from the doctor's office. They'd know who he is. The shop girl said they'd had to ban him from the shop before. For making customers uncomfortable." 

"We'll stop there on the way in to the Hoover," Mulder pronounced. 

A few minutes later, they were on their way out the door, with an offer from Frohike for Doggett to stay over for as long as he wanted. 

Doggett took the wheel of the truck this time and he sat in strained silence, driving through already thick morning traffic. To break the tension, Mulder said, "Do you want some breakfast? Pull over anywhere. I'm buying." 

Doggett surprised Mulder by saying, "Yeah, sure." 

A short while later, they were sliding into a booth at a diner that Doggett seemed to know. "Been a while since I've been here," he said as he shifted in his seat. He just barely fit into the small, crowded booth. "I won't fit in this booth too much longer." 

"We can ask for a table with chairs, if you like," Mulder said. 

"No," Doggett said. "I like a booth. I'm going to enjoy it while I can." 

Their server stepped up to their table. He was a young man, just barely an adult by Mulder's estimation. The pin on his shirt identified him as Luis and the round belly on his front identified him as pregnant by a good six months. 

"Water?" he asked, his voice that bland neutral friendliness common to most waitstaff. "Or anything else to drink?" 

"Coffee, black. Decafe," Doggett said. 

"Regular coffee for me," Mulder said. 

* * *

The instant the waiter was done taking their order, Mulder slipped away, excusing himself to the restroom. Doggett wondered at his uncomfortable, and at the moment, very physically uncomfortable attraction to the other agent. That much Doggett couldn't help. The excess blood flow to the pelvic area made matters worse. Pregnant men were notoriously horny. He'd be willing to attest to the fact that he got hard-ons all the time, for no provocation. And as gorgeous as he was, Agent Mulder was a decided provocation. 

As Doggett contemplated his attraction to Mulder and tried to think about baseball scores or something similarly erection wilting, the waiter came up with the two carafes of coffee. 

"Are you scared?" the young man asked as he poured. Doggett wouldn't have placed him as any older than nineteen, twenty. Way too young for him to be in the state he was in. Practically a baby, but having a baby. "By the killer." 

It'd been all over the radio on the way here. "No, I'm not scared," Doggett said, and that much was true. He was pissed off. 

"I am. They say the killer strikes at single fathers," the waiter said. "I don't have anyone. You've got your man there." 

"He's not my man," Doggett protested. "He's someone I work with. I'm alone in this too. You don't have anyone you can stay with? Parents?" 

"I called them, first thing this morning, right after I heard, asked them if I could come home for a while not even for a long time. Just until I could figure something else out. You know what my dad said to me? He said his son Luis was dead." 

Doggett winced, thinking of his own relationship with his mother gone south. But he wasn't a kid. He had the wherewithal to do this on his own. He had a job and health insurance and paid leave time. This kid had obviously had nothing. 

"My mom's not too accepting either," Doggett said. "You got friends? The other father of the baby?" 

Luis snorted at that. "That no good excuse for a man? He's gone. Found himself another boy in another city, a real boy, one he can't knock up. I moved here to be with him when my dad threw me out. So I don't know anyone here." 

"Well, call 911 if you hear anything at all, anything that makes you feel uncomfortable at all," Doggett said, even as he thought about how it hadn't done any good the last time. 

"In my neighborhood, you could be killed in broad daylight on the street and the cops wouldn't come," Luis said. He finished pouring the coffee then he left, leaving Doggett to wonder what it was exactly that he'd done or said wrong. 

Mulder returned to the table a moment later. He was looking fairly dishelveled, in need of a shave, but he still looked good, his hair achieving that certain kind of tossled that was sexier than any kind of perfect. He was far more gorgeous than he had any right to be after a night like last night. 

"I figure you need me on this investigation of yours, Agent Mulder," Doggett said. 

"How so?" Mulder asked. 

"You need bait," Doggett said. "I'm the obvious candidate. Nobody else in the Bureau has got what this guy wants." 

"No," Mulder said, quickly and vehemently, as if he hadn't given it any thought, that it was just a knee jerk reaction. "The risk is too great. We'll find this guy, but not at a risk to you." 

* * *

Mulder wondered at the sudden, unthinking panic he felt at the thought that Agent Doggett might be hurt, but he dismissed it. He felt connections that he could neither explain nor deny all the time, sudden, unconscious connections. Perhaps John and he had shared something in another life, perhaps they had been brothers, friends or lovers. 

"Anyway, it's not my call. The case belongs to Agent Scully. She filed the 302 on it," Mulder said, smugly sure that Scully would never do something that would put a pregnant person in danger. 

"Then I guess I'll just have to talk to her about it," Doggett said. 

The man, Mulder thought, was just as stubborn as he himself was. They'd make quite a pair. Thank God it was Scully that had been assigned as his X-Files partner, not this guy. They'd still be sitting in the basement, arguing, not having solved a single case. 

At first they didn't say anything, but waited in an awkward silence until their food arrived. But after a few bites of his toast, Doggett ventured a question of sorts. "You've got quite the reputation, Agent Mulder." 

"You mean as the Bureau nutcase?" Mulder asked back, testing more than accusing. 

"I'm not saying that people don't say that," Doggett said. "But what I mean is that they also say you're a genius, that you solve cases that no one else could have." 

A while later, they were pulling up the driveway of a charming white house, a much bigger house than Mulder would have expected of a single man. Perhaps its purchase had been made with a future family in mind, at least unconsciously, because it didn't sound like Doggett had planned to get pregnant. 

Mulder could certainly imagine a family living here. There were probably three, maybe even four bedrooms tucked under those eaves and dormers. The yard was sizeable and there was even a white picket fence around the property. And it somehow made him ache to think about Doggett living in that expansive space all by himself. 

"Your home sweet home?" Mulder asked as Doggett parked the truck. 

"Such as it is," Doggett said. 

Once inside the house, Doggett peered a little more closely at Mulder, making Mulder uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Then Doggett said, "Come on upstairs. I'll let you use a razor. You need a shave." 

So Mulder followed him up the steps and down the hall to the bathroom, past the open doors of the mostly empty other bedrooms. 

"Which one is going to be the baby's room?" Mulder asked, thinking that he hadn't seen so much as the slightest preparation for the new life coming to this house. No sign of nursery, crib, baby clothes or any of that. 

"I haven't really gotten that far yet," Doggett said, defensively. "I figure I've got four months to get it figured out. Right now, I figure our focus is on catching this monster." 

Chastened, Mulder said, "You're right." 

* * *

Doggett gave Mulder a disposable razor, pointed out the shaving cream and towels and left him to it. He retreated to his bedroom, where his unmade bed was testament to the disaster of last night. Doggett sighed and started in on making the bed. Behind him, he heard a throat clearing. He turned around, expecting Mulder. 

It wasn't Mulder. It was a tubby, balding guy that looked like a used car salesman. Doggett didn't recognize the guy at first and was about to panic and yell for Mulder, but then recognition flooded in, along with the vertigo of two streams of memory. One of his real life, the here and the now, and the other life, dimly remembered, of a world where men never got pregnant, where the very idea was ridiculous. And in that world, Doggett meeting Gene over a rug at a flea market. 

"Decided on your last wish yet?" Gene asked. 

"No, I'm still thinking about it," Doggett said. Honestly, he couldn't decide. 

"So, you want me to unpregnant you and stick you back to that flea market parking lot, things just like they were?" Gene asked. 

Doggett was surprised at his instant, unthinking reaction. And then not so surprised as he thought about it. "No!" he said, his arms wrapping around his middle. Because making things as they had been, but were no longer, would mean giving up his little girl. She'd cease to exist. 

"I thought as much," Gene said smugly. "I told you this was what you wanted." 

"That may be, but ya don't gotta rub it in," Doggett said. "You know, I specified a family. I figure it would have been easy enough to get me pregnant without having some stranger do the deed. You could have provided the father too." 

"I tried, believe me, I tried. Oy, did I try," Gene said. He wrung his hands and sounded for all the world like someone's Jewish grandmother. "Man after man I threw at you and you'd have none of it. Knowle. Gordon. David. Warren. Ben. Bill. Jack. Dennis. I was so hopeful about Dennis. Anthony. Misha. James." 

John recognized every name on the list. Some he'd been aware, had been willing, indeed, quite eager to date him, to make a more intimate acquaintance of him, to, in one case, get Doggett to give him the time of day. But Doggett just hadn't been interested in that way, at least with most of them. He'd had a few interesting thoughts about Knowle, but the guy was just too secretive about his work and too many other things for Doggett to be comfortable with him, so ultimately, interest never became more than that. Dennis was an agent in criminal investigations over at the IRS and handsome in the brawny and bald kind of way, but his interest had definitely seemed to cool once he'd realized that Doggett was not just andro-fecund, but pregnant. 

Some of those names on the list, Doggett didn't have the faintest clue that they might have been interested in him that way. Ben was a fellow agent, one he'd worked with closely on a couple of cases, but it had hardly extended to an outside of work friendship, much less a romantic interest. James was probably James his regular auto mechanic, who couldn't have been a more masculine guy, the last person you'd have suspected of being gay. 

"Okay, maybe I haven't exactly been open to romance," Doggett said. "But you could have figured something out." 

"The one thing I can't do is make you fall in love," Gene said. "Anyway, this guy, this other father of your baby. You'll meet him again soon. You'll like him. I can almost guarantee that. You've certainly got chemistry together. His name's Daniel. He's a doctor. He has tons of money. Has two adult children that would be thrilled to have a little baby half-sister. And you have to admit, he is a handsome one. He can't stop thinking about you and regretting he didn't get your name." 

"There one problem with this prince, far as I can see. I don't know him. I don't want to know him. I don't love him, and like you said, you can't make me love him," Doggett said. It seemed like the guy had been more than eager to make a quick exit the last time they met. Why would Doggett care to make that any different than it had been? 

"You'll like him. And you have to admit that the chemistry was fantastic and the sex was great," Gene said, disconcerting Doggett a great deal. It was like talking with your old fashioned uncle about sex- embarrassing beyond measure. 

Still, Doggett couldn't help but think about the encounter and just how good it had been, despite the disastrous ending. On the other hand, maybe that disastrous ending wasn't such a bad thing afterall. 

"Look, I don't want to talk about it," Doggett said, firmly. "I have work to get ready for. We have a murderer to catch. I've got Agent Mulder no more than twenty feet away, probably about done with his shave by now. Ask me about my third wish some other time." 

"As you wish," Gene said. He snapped his fingers then vanished. 

Immediately, memory flooded away from him, leaving Doggett wondering why he was standing in the middle of the floor, staring at nothing. He wrote it off to another symptom of pregnancy- it had made him absent minded sometimes, forgetful even. The doctor had said that it was a fairly common side effect, for men even more so than women for some reason. A moment later, Mulder peeked around the door. He was in the middle of re-fastening his tie around his neck, nimble fingers working the knot up the length of the gaudy silk. He seemed remarkably bright eyed and eager for someone who'd been up most, if not all of the night, like a horse straining at the starting gate, unlike Doggett who felt like something much more akin to something brought into the vicinity by a creature of the feline persuasion. 

"Bathroom's all yours again," Mulder said, then took a closer look at Doggett taking in Doggett's slightly vacant and distracted stare. "Are you okay?" 

Doggett shook his head as if he could clear the cobwebs that infested his mental processes away. "I'm fine. I was just thinking about that boy. Our waiter in the restaurant. He doesn't have anyone, anywhere to go. And you gotta think that there have to be more like him out there, rejected by his parents, his friends, even the guy that knocked him up. You know, a guy who's pregnant is about twice as likely to be a single parent than a woman who's pregnant." 

"All the more reason for us to find this guy now," Mulder said. 

"I should shower. I'll be quick," Doggett said. 

A few moments later he was standing under a hot water spray, scrubbing at himself with the soap. He paused as he worked on his belly, stopping to feel the strangely taut skin that covered his rounded belly. He should have been used to it by now. Afterall he'd been pregnant for months, but there was still a strangeness to all of this. This was something he'd never planned, a path he'd never anticipated taking as a young man. But no young man knew if the Change would happen to him until it started to happen. He'd been smug that it wasn't going to happen to him. Until he went to the doctor one day about four years ago, finally unable to put up any longer with the mild but persistent pelvic pain he'd been feeling for the couple of years before then. It'd turned out not to be the cancer or other dire illness he was imagining and just his pelvic bones and internal organs rearranging themselves. Worse though was the month or so his external sexual organs changed. 

It shouldn't happen, the Change. It seemed to fly in the face of human biology and all good sense. But in the natural world, there were instances of later life sex changes- mostly in fish if Doggett recalled what he'd read correctly, and in response to environmental conditions. 

Doctors and researchers still weren't sure why it happened, or even entirely how it happened, especially in men who'd gotten well into their adult years with no sign of it. They hadn't managed to track down the gene or genes responsible, so there wasn't a test for early detection. Even more mysterious was the sudden spread of the mutation, from unheard of fifty years ago, to an estimated ten percent of the male population these days, though it might have been even higher, especially the younger the generation. For most men, unless they got pregnant, nobody had to know, except the man's doctors and possibly his lover, though not necessarily even that. Doggett could imagine a man keeping such a thing from a female lover. He'd pretty much had kept it under his hat, had planned on keeping it that way. Then life got in the way. As much as he loved his little girl already, it hadn't exactly been on the agenda to get knocked up by some stranger in a bar. He found himself wishing it could have happened some other way. 

The image of Agent Mulder plowing and planting his seed in Doggett's fertile field, so to speak, suddenly caught Doggett's mind and he found himself rock hard at the thought. He didn't have time for this, though he desparetely wanted to engage in some...relief. He rinsed the last of the soap from his body, then turned the shower gradually to cold. 

* * *

Mulder walked through the glass door that Doggett held open for him. Doggett had been very careful and obvious about that much. He wasn't going to let Mulder treat him like a little lady and that was that. Mulder didn't argue or object even if seemed a little ridiculous. Let the man keep whatever parts of his masculine dignity he needed to. 

Mulder glanced up and down the racks of clothes, mostly women's maternity clothes, though there was a generous selection of baby clothes. At that sight, he thought of Scully and her last, failed attempt to get pregnant. It would have made him a father, had it succeeded, since he'd agreed, despite many misgivings, to be her sperm donor. What had surprised him was how hard he, too, had grieved when he'd heard the bad news that it hadn't taken, but he'd only allowed those tears to slip after Scully had gone home and he was alone in his apartment as usual. He felt an odd, bittersweet melancholy as he looked at the reminders of a life that might have been but wasn't. 

As two men in this store that seemed so aimed at women, they attracted the immediate attention of the saleswoman. She appeared out of nowhere, bustling to meet them before they infected the place with masculinity or something. "Can I help you?" she asked. 

Mulder had automatically reached for his ID and Doggett had the same instinct apparently, because they both pulled them out of their pockets at the same time. "I'm Agent Mulder. This is Agent Doggett. We're with the FBI. We were hoping we could ask you and the rest of the staff a few questions." 

At this point Doggett stepped forward. "You remember when I was here yesterday, there was a man here. You kicked him out of the store and told him you'd call the police if he came back, because he makes the customers uncomfortable. What can you tell us about him?" 

"Any information might be useful," Mulder added. "A name. How often he comes around. Anything you know." 

"I don't know his real name," the woman said doubtfully, as if she wasn't sure she should even be saying this much. "We call him Creepy Todd. The manager probably knows, but she's not in right now. Or the police. We did have him arrested once. You think he's the one that's killing those pregnant men, don't you? Look, he's creepy, but he's not dangerous. I don't think he could possibly do that." 

"Ma'am, we've got so few leads at this point, we're following up everything, no matter how unlikely," Doggett said. "Thanks for your help." 

* * *

They finally reached the elevator. They reached for the button at the same time, but Mulder pressed the down button, while Doggett pressed the up button. Then they looked at each other, as it was suddenly clear to both of them that their ways would be parting, if only for a little while. 

"Scully's waiting for me in my office," Mulder said. "I'll ask her if she minds you in on this one. In some capacity other than decoy." 

"Agent Mulder," Doggett said. "I've been thinking. This guy already has me in his sights. Last night, a couple of hours before Peter called me, I heard a prowler in my own yard. Someone out there. When I went to investigate, there was no one I could see, but the neighbor's dog was barking his head off." 

Doggett could almost see the thought forming in Mulder's head- all the better reason to keep you out of this and packed away. And it pissed him off. Mulder didn't say it though, thankfully. "I'll talk to Scully first thing," was all Mulder said as the first elevator opened, the arrow pointing down. Then Mulder got on the elevator and the brushed stainless steel doors closed on him. 

Doggett reached his desk in the midst of furious activity. He'd been in law enforcement long enough to know when there was some kind of break in a case just by the sound of the office. Something, and something big, was happening. Maybe even there was some hint that the girl might be found alive. Despite his night, the familiar sound of a case going the right way started to swing his mood towards the positive, a certain cautious optimism taking root, the hint of a good mood. 

As he reached his desk, Laurel stepped in front of the room and called out in a loud voice, "Briefing in five, people. Be ready." 

Doggett gathered his files, the little he'd been able to get together yesterday and found his way to the conference table, but before he reached it, Laurel collared him, stepping in his path and not letting him walk any further unless he walked right through her. She'd been canny and had ambushed him at a narrow corner where someone's badly placed desk partially blocked the traffic flow. He couldn't get around her gracefully, so he had to talk to her. 

"I heard what happened last night," she said softly as she led him to a quiet corner, her hand soft on his shoulder. 

Word got around fast at this place exactly when you didn't want it to. 

"You should have taken the day off," Laurel said when they'd arrived to an out of the way spot between a cubicle divider and the wall. "I would have expected it, having a friend murdered overnight. In the circumstances." 

"In the circumstances," Doggett said, smoothing down his anger. He could tell exactly where this was leading and he didn't like it, not a bit. "If you listen to Agent Mulder's victim profile, I'm probably safest here at work, surrounded by people." 

Laurel looked confused. That was the problem with the Bureau gossip mill. Only part of the information made its way all the way through the place. 

"The guy preys not just on pregnant men, but on ones that are alone. Single men. Men that spend a significant amount of time alone. Maybe separated from their spouses or whatever. So, if this is all about your being worried about me, me being at work sounds like the safest bet." 

"Maybe you're right, John, but it had to be a shock to your system. I'd honestly feel better if you took a few personal days and went to stay with friends," Laurel said. "Before we go into briefing, I want you to know that we've got a break and we're moving the team to Georgia. I want you to stay here and work more on our efforts here. More phone work." 

"In other words, I'm out of the field," Doggett said, the words like old vomit in his mouth, sour and vile. "I'm out of this case." 

"With any luck, if this break falls the way I think it will, the case will be over in less than twenty-four hours anyway," Laurel said. He'd expected her to be snappish with him, impatient with his demands not to be taken out of the field, demands that even he was beginning to recognize as unreasonable. Instead, Laurel spoke softly and soothingly to him. "John, you know as well as I that just because you're not out in the field doesn't mean you're out of the case or out of a job. You know that we need people here that we can count on just as much as we'll need them in Georgia. Let's go. We have to go to briefing." 

And so he went, not seeing that he could argue with her anymore, but not exactly happy about it. 

* * *

Scully was waiting for him in the basement, looking pretty much like she should considering she'd been up all night presiding over an autopsy. Her eyes were slightly vacant, as if she were drifting in a dream state until he spoke up and said, "Hey," to her. 

She didn't quite startle, but she snapped to attention immediately. "Skinner wants to see us as soon as you get here," she said, the weary tone in her voice seeming to have more to do with the prospect of Skinner raking them over the coals again rather than any physical exhaustion. 

"I wonder what puppy he thinks I kicked now," Mulder said, not even bothering to sit down, or even take another step into the pleasantly cluttered comfort of his office. He'd really been hoping he could get into the familiar and even enjoyable business of digging through records and facts, hoping to ferret out some trace of the unsub that he was just beginning to almost...smell. No, it wasn't quite like that, but it was certain sense, that connection. They'd be finding the guy soon, he could feel it. To have his chance to go rooting ripped from him swamped him into a miasma of irritation. 

"Let's go find out, shall we?" Scully said. "His assistant did say at our earliest possible convenience." 

That meant they'd better get up there by yesterday at the latest. 

A few moments later they were walking into the familiar confines of the ADs office. How many times had this exact thing happened? Him called onto the carpet about some thing he'd done on a case, Scully at his side, taking the flack right along with him. If he hadn't have been so close the verge of anger, he might have felt comfortable, right at home with the familiarity. Only last week, he was there, trying to explain just exactly how it was he'd come to seemingly materialize in the middle of one of Skinner's interminable meetings. 

Skinner's blond assistant looked up and said, "Go right in, Agents. He's been waiting." 

The little clues Mulder had learned to read over the years indicated that the situation was so not good when she used that particular terminology. It might have been a milder reaming in store if she'd used 'he's been expecting you.' 

Mulder cautiously crept into the room and found his usual seat. For once he let Scully take the lead, it was, afterall, her case, and she'd been the one to make most of the decisions so far. 

"You wanted to see us, sir," she said. 

Skinner was doing the old stoneface routine, the one that Mulder could read right through, and see, not anger, but concern for them. So, the anger had come down from higher levels and Skinner was, again, being used as a vehicle to transmit it. But Skinner's personal feelings, concealed behind the hard set of the jaw and expressionless face was fear that he wouldn't be able to reel them in this time, protect them like he did so often. 

"You've created a panic, Agents," Skinner said. "The Director and the Deputy Director, not to mention myself are furious that you've gone to the press prematurely on this case." 

"Prematurely?" Scully asked, surprising Mulder with her fury. "With all due respect, sir, thirty-five people are dead, most likely at the hands of this killer, and unless we got the warning out to any potential targets, there very likely might be more very soon." 

"Thirty-five?" Skinner asked, looking puzzled. He quickly paged through the brief file that Scully must have given him already with their progress so far. "I was under the understanding that there were seventeen possible victims, most of them not confirmed as being by the same killer." 

"Brian Julius was pregnant with twins, Sir," Scully said, sitting up even straighter if that was possible. 

"Seventeen victims, Agent Scully. It's an extremely sensitive issue. We can't prosecute for the wrongful death of a fetus. It's been tried before and struck down. Legally speaking, a fetus is not a person," Skinner said. "What kind of progress have you made? Now that you've stirred up a panic, you're going to have to calm it down as soon as possible." 

"We have a possible piece of genetic evidence from the scene last night. Also, from the Julius case, we've got another possible genetic link. Some tissue was found under Julius' fingernails, possibly he was able to scratch the unsub as he struggled. But the evidence was never analyzed due to lack of funds. The state tends not to send evidence like that for DNA work unless they actually have a suspect. I've arranged for it to be sent to the Bureau for testing. Agent Mulder has a working profile and he was hoping to get access to military medical records to try and narrow down possible suspects." 

Skinner looked to Mulder and so it was time to perform. Pull the rabbit out of his hat. "I'll spare all the usual parts of the profile and say that from the skill he wields a knife and his ability to stalk his victims, that he was most likely military, particularly some kind of special forces- Green Beret, maybe. He's re-enacting his own traumatic abortion and forced hysterectomy. We can narrow his age down to between fifty and forty, because of the time span when it was standard procedure to perform such operations on unwilling soldiers, regardless of consent. We could narrow down servicemen who fit into this profile and reside in the area into a fairly short list." 

"I would also like to request the assistance of Agent John Doggett, sir," Scully said, causing Mulder's stomach to bottom out then clench in a peculiar nervousness. Doggett couldn't have gotten to her, therefore, she had to have thought it out herself, to get him involved. Mulder thought he controlled his expression well. He thought. 

"Is there any reason you need this particular agent?" Skinner asked. He seemed confused still, and definitely there was no recognition of the name. 

"He fits our victim profile exactly. He's male and pregnant," Scully said. It was then that the recognition clicked into place on Skinner's face. Doggett, being the first man in the Bureau to make use of paternity leave, must have had nearly as much notoriety as Mulder did, in his own way. Scully continued. "Furthermore, he's single, living alone. And he's older. Our unsub appears to favor older victims. Only one of his victims so far has been under twenty-five." 

"You're thinking of using him in some sort of decoy capacity?" Skinner asked. 

Scully nodded, saying, "It seems the most expedient way to flush out the unsub, barring if we can find him by Mulder's method." 

"I'll speak to his ASAC and have her ask him if he wants to get involved. An assignment this dangerous, considering his condition, would have to be a personal decision. That's all. And Agents, anything else at all on this goes out to the media through the usual official channels." 

"Understood, sir," Scully said. 

She stood to go, so did Mulder. As she was halfway out the door and he had just fully risen, Skinner said, "A word with you, Agent Mulder." 

Mulder sat back down. He'd been wondering why the reaming had been so mild, and apparently only Scully's portion thereof was meant to be. His was coming up. 

"Agent Mulder, I noticed you seem to have a problem, some disagreement with Agent Scully about involving Agent Doggett in this case. Would you mind explaining?" Skinner asked. 

So, he must not have controlled his expression as well as he thought. Or perhaps just not soon enough. Under his facade of a stodgy, expressionless bureaucrat, Skinner was an observant, perceptive man who seemed to feel deeply for his two closest agents. Of course, Mulder could have done without Skinner's 'I yell because I care' approach. 

"Sir," Mulder said. "All issues of putting a pregnant man into danger aside, I don't think Agent Doggett would have sufficient distance from this case. What Agent Scully did not mention was that we met Agent Doggett for the first time last night at a crime scene. A place where Peter Van Buren had been murdered less than hour before. Peter Van Buren was a friend of Agent Doggett's, sir. Agent Doggett had been on the phone with him when the attack commenced. This is not the kind of case that he'd be able to maintain any kind of objectivity on." 

"It's not that I don't share your concern, Agent Mulder," Skinner said. "But I don't see what else we can do at this point. As you pointed out yourself, the killer is escalating and we need to get him off the street as soon as we can." 

"I'll do whatever it takes, sir," Mulder said. Then he stood to go, because there didn't seem to be anything more to say about it. 

* * *

Doggett found his way back to his desk after the briefing, planning to get back to his endless phone canvassing. All going to lead to nothing, he was sure, but there was nothing else for him apparently. 

A short while later, he heard someone walk up to his desk. He looked up. It was Laurel and her face was in that hard blandness that she used to cover up her expression when she was upset. 

"John, I just got a call from upstairs," she said. "From AD Skinner." 

Doggett felt his heart skip a little, then his little girl moved rapidly as if in response, butterflies in more than his stomach. This was what he was hoping for, he was sure. He kept his face inexpressively blank though as he asked, "So, what did the man upstairs want?" 

"Agent Scully has asked for your particular assistance on a case she's working with Agent Mulder. It's a murder investigation, a serial killer. I think you know what case without me telling you. AD Skinner emphasized that this is entirely your own decision and that there is no pressure for you to take part in this investigation." 

"I'll do it," Doggett said. He didn't even have to think about it. As if there was any kind of question that he would. 

* * *

Just before five, as Mulder was digging his way through VA computer records, Doggett announced his presence with a knock on the doorframe of the basement office. 

"You skipped out on the briefing Agent Scully gave me," Doggett said. He sounded like he might be nursing some hurt feelings from that. Mulder had meant to go, only he'd gotten buried in ferreting his way through the records, caught up in the process and by the time he'd realized the time, Doggett was knocking on the door frame. 

"I got caught up in research," Mulder explained, but before he could offer more apology, the phone rang. "Mulder." 

"There's been another one, Mulder." 

It was Scully. She sounded like she was calling from out on a city street on her cell phone. Even so, the words came through loud and clear, with a brutal force that couldn't be denied. 

"Where? What happened?" Mulder asked. 

"This one appears to have been found some days post-mortem," she said. You could almost hear her wrinkle her nose at the odor. "The victim was found in an abandoned apartment building in the city. Unlike the others, the victim was fairly young, probably a teenager. I can see the same MO as the others. What appears to be a disabling blow, with death caused by knife wounds, especially to the abdomen." 

"We'll be right there, Scully," Mulder said. 

"We?" she asked. 

"I'm with Agent Doggett," he said. "What's the address?" 

He got it from her, then hung up. Doggett looked up questioningly, and expression that turned pained when Mulder asked, "Want to go look at another crime scene?" 

* * *

It was exactly the sort of place you'd expect to come across as a crime scene, though drugs came to mind, rather murder. There were no intact windows left on the four story apartment block and most of the board ups were gone as well. Those that were left were coated with a liberal spread of graffiti, mostly gang tags. The coroner's wagon was there already, along with a generous selection of cop cars and uniformed officers milling around outside. 

Mulder and he got out of the car, and flashing their badges around, lifted up one of the swathes of bright yellow crime scene tape and walked under it. Scully was waiting just inside the building, her face calm, but looking somehow pinched and tight. 

"Again, like all the other scenes, this guy doesn't leave much behind. We haven't lifted so much as a single oblique print. Considering the scene, there's no way to tell if this was a forced entry like the other cases." 

As she talked, she led them along a litter strewn hallway that smelled of urine and other less pleasant things, almost making Doggett gag. Especially as they got to the end of the hallway and the distinctive reek of days old corpse became apparent. Unavoidable. 

The usual crime scene technicians were bustling over the room, dusting things for prints, combing for fibers, all of that. Never before had all the usual police procedures, the ones that he'd come to rely on, to take almost as gospel, had seemed so futile to him. 

In the corner of the room was the body, covered for the moment with a tarp. There was no furniture in the room beyond a bare mattress, no furnishings of any kind. More gang tags all up and down the broken down white walls. Big holes in the crumbling plaster showed rough lathe. A few crack vials were scattered here and there, along with a number of used condoms and condom wrappers. 

Mulder was already squatting down to pull back the tarp and look at the victim. Doggett walked around to the left of Mulder, so that he could get a good look at the same time. 

He gasped at what he saw, feeling the blood drain from his face. This, too, was no corpse, but a human shaped pile of ashes, burned to blackness, ready to crumble into nothingness at a mere touch. He turned his head away, unable to look. 

A moment later, he had to turn back and look, to convince himself that he was just seeing things. That it couldn't be real, what he'd just seen. The others would be noticeably more upset if it were only ashes left, therefore, he was seeing things. 

He looked again and Mulder wasn't looking at the body any more, but at him, puzzled and solicitous, as if he wasn't entirely sure that Doggett was steady on his feet and he was prepared to stand up and give Doggett a helping hand if necessary. 

Doggett forced his eyes back to the victim. It was a corpse. Not ashes. The victim was African-American, skin as dark as bittersweet chocolate. Between that and the bad light and him getting not enough sleep had to explain him seeing things that weren't real. Still, he backed out of the room, his insides churning. 

As fast as he could move, he ran for the front entrance, making it to the apartment's front stoop before he lost what was left of his lunch. It hurled past his throat, through his lips in a stream of liquid humiliation. Mulder was suddenly by his side, arm around Doggett's shoulder, providing warm strength. When his stomach had stopped turning itself inside out, Mulder was still there. Not just still there, but offering napkins gotten from somewhere for Doggett to wipe his mouth with. Doggett was led to the car they'd arrived in and Mulder insisted that he sit down. Still feeling kind of shocky, Doggett complied. 

"What did you see that upset you so much?" Mulder asked. "Not the second time you looked. But the first, before you turned away." 

"I saw the dead body of a kid who couldn't have been more than eighteen," Doggett said. 

"No," Mulder said, firmly. "You saw something more. Yes, that's upsetting enough, but no doubt you've seen enough dead bodies before that none of them are shocking. No, what I saw was you getting some kind of shock that was almost beyond frightening." 

"I didn't see anything," Doggett said, and he almost believed it. "Look, Agent Mulder, just what are you trying to get at here?" 

I think you had some kind of vision, something that the rest of us didn't see. I think you might have some kind of link, a nexus as it were, to the victims. " 

"I saw a kid that was butchered, that was all. It was a man that did this. Don't go trying to bring in any kind of psychic friends network mumbo jumbo into this. My stomach is a lot easier to upset these days, for an obvious reason," Doggett insisted, trying to put the memory of what he was sure he hadn't seen behind him. He hadn't seen anything, just bad lighting and an overly suggestive imagination fueled by a reality that was bad enough. 

"You saw something," Mulder insisted. 

"A dead kid. Now, let's get on with this." 

* * *

Mulder watched as Doggett stood up again, squared his shoulders and headed back into the abandoned apartment building. He was brave, courageous to the point of bullheadedness, Mulder had to give him that. But saying that was the pot calling the kettle black to be sure. They had more in common than Doggett was willing to admit, Mulder could see. Despite Mulder's mumbo-jumbo explanations for things. 

Still, Mulder was convinced, was absolutely certain that Doggett had seen something beyond what might be called ordinary reality, something that had frightened him badly. Not just because of how strange or evil it had been, but because he'd seen it before. The instant before horror took over, there had been a moment of recognition in Doggett's face. An 'not that again'. 

Mulder hurried after Doggett, fiercely determined to find out, in whatever way was necessary, just what it was that Doggett had seen and wanted to deny and certain that whatever it was, it was essential to crack the case. 

* * *

There was nothing at the crime scene, or at least nothing that seemed to be anything. Doggett was about to turn around and leave the crime scene when the city cops brought in a scruffy looking kid. Doggett couldn't tell entirely if the kid was a boy or a girl. No more than seventeen, eighteen. One of those transexual types, though it was kind of hard to tell in the bad light. To Doggett's eyes, the kid might also have just been a girl, trying to look older and sexier. Fake boobs pushed askew in his or her shirt, but with long, very fake looking, blond braids woven right into his or her natural hair. They were growing out and it was pretty obvious that he or she hadn't had them redone in some time. 

"Says she might be able to id the victim," someone said in earshot of Doggett. 

The cops led the kid over to the tarp that the vic still laid under. The tarp was lifted and the kid was directed to look at the body. The kid shrieked as he looked at the body, then started sobbing immediately. It took two detectives to calm the kid down enough to say, "Yeah, that's Bo." 

It took even longer to get more of the story out of the kid. Bo, no known last name at least not on the street, had been working the streets a long time, doing tricks for drugs, someplace to stay, whatever. But then Bo had disappeared about four days back, and the kid had been glad about that, because Bo had been talking that he thought his grandmother might take him in. The kid had thought that's where Bo had gone, had gotten off the streets for a while, at least until the baby was born. No, no one had seen Bo go off with a trick and not return. So, that was pretty much a dead end. 

Finally, the cops led the still weeping kid away to take his formal statement at the station. Mulder turned to Doggett and said, "I've almost never seen rage this intense before. We have to get him. Are you sure you didn't see anything?" 

"I didn't see anything," Doggett said, thinking of the thing he'd thought he'd seen, the pile of ashes his imagination had produced. He could hear doubt in his voice, and he knew Mulder could hear it. 

"Let's get out of here," Doggett said. 

* * *

Doggett had been wired, and the plan was for him to go home alone tonight. Well, not exactly alone. But they couldn't be in the house, and Mulder was sure that if surveillance was parked too close to the house, the unsub would know, and he'd stay away. So the plan was for the monitoring van to be parked a few blocks away. They'd coordinated with the Falls Church PD, who were prepared to have officers there, not within fifteen minutes of the call, but in less than a minute. Still, Mulder fretted, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Something was going to happen tonight and it was not going to be good. 

At the moment, Doggett was grabbing a quick nap as Mulder drove them to Falls Church. His cragged face had relaxed a lot in sleep, smoothed out, making him look much younger. Mulder puzzled over the man, trying to understand what drove him, why he could deny something that he'd seen with his own eyes so strongly. It was a different kind of disbelief from Scully's. Her disbelief said, 'prove it to me so that there can be no doubt.' But Doggett's disbelief seemed to be saying, 'I can't believe, not without turning my whole world inside out.' 

Someone was due for some world turning, Mulder thought. 

He pulled into the driveway of the charming white house and Doggett woke at the sudden decrease in speed. Doggett opened his eyes, then narrowed them immediately and said, "Stop here." 

Mulder did and Doggett climbed out of the truck and went around to the front of the house. He had sharper eyes than Mulder, or just a strong sense for something wrong, something not quite as it had been, with his own house at least. Mulder hadn't noticed it, but Doggett had. 

A pair of baby booties was tied together by the strings and hung over the front door handle. The booties were the kind of thing that someone's grandma knits out of cheap acrylic yarn, in this case, pale green yarn. Doggett peered closely at them, but stopped Mulder from reaching out and touching them. 

"He's been here, and he's one sick bastard," Doggett said, sourly. "My ex-wife said she was going to send me some baby things." 

Doggett started looking around the area, as if checking for footprints, any kind of evidence that their unsub might have left. A moment later, something must have caught his eye, because he pointed down to some bushes and Mulder noticed a corner of brown cardboard. 

"That has to be the box," Doggett said. "I wonder what the hell he did with the rest of the things." 

Then Doggett turned to face the street, his face hard with a restrained fury. "Listen, you monster. I know you're watching me and you're not going to get away with this." 

Mulder meanwhile backtracked off the porch and had started to scout around the yard, noticing the way that the grass was slightly crushed, as if it'd been walked on. The man was large, Mulder decided. Easily two hundred twenty pounds, possibly more. His feet must have been similarly large, at least a size twelve, Mulder estimated. The man was smart enough not to have stepped anywhere on bare ground, where the soil, still damp from frequent spring rains couldn't have failed to take a clear imprint from a shoe. Mulder pulled one of latex gloves he habitually carried around with him and snapped it on, then reached out to touch the box. 

"The box is empty," he said, very worried, suddenly. This was trophy taking and could only mean that the unsub was so confident in his ability to take Doggett that he was willing to break pattern to do it first. Mulder called out, even as his hand went to his firearm, "Is there any sign of forced entry?" 

"No, not this entrance," Doggett said. Mulder looked up and the porch and noticed that Doggett had fully drawn his weapon and was holding it at ready. "Let's check around the back." 

"I don't think we should split up," Mulder said. 

Doggett didn't disagree. 

* * *

Doggett was shaking with something that was like the remains of fear, burnt into fury. The message of the booties on the door was clear- I will get you and your child. 

Not if I get you first, bastard, Doggett thought. 

At first, as they'd driven up to the house, Doggett couldn't help but see the booties. What he'd seen, what had made him make Mulder stop the car, actually, wasn't them at all, but something like a fire. Something on his front door appeared to be on fire. By the time they'd reached the porch, it was nothing more than an old pair of booties that had been made by Barbara's mother. Just normal objects. It must have been some illusion, some flare from the lowering sun shining against some shiny bit on the door. Only that couldn't be it, could it? It was way too cloudy for that. It was a raw, blustery kind of day, with heavy clouds that broke apart revealing momentary brilliant light and bands of blue sky. Could one of those moments have happened at just the right time? Doggett tried to convince himself, but the explanation just didn't seem to fit, leaving him feeling uncomfortable. 

They cautiously made their way around the building, but found no further sign of anyone's presence. No scattered baby clothes, no broken windows. 

"I don't see anything. He must not have tried to get into the house," Mulder said eventually. "Let's go inside." 

The plan had been for Mulder to just drop him off. Doggett was already wired, his back up was supposed to be in place a few blocks away. He'd caught what sleep he could on the way home and such as he could grab earlier in the day at the Bureau, because he wasn't going to be doing any sleeping tonight, that was for sure. 

They completed their circuit of the house and ended up on the front porch again. They looked at the booties again, then Doggett heedlessly tore them off the knob, not caring that they might be evidence. It wasn't likely that the bumpy knit had taken any fingerprints and they somehow seemed obscene just dangling from the knob. 

He cradled the booties in one hand while he reached for his keys with the other. They'd been Luke's, Doggett was suddenly reminded. One child taken from him already. 

He couldn't help but think about the day they found Luke, in the field. The way that the police had clustered around, blocking his view, then they'd parted and he could see. And for a brief, hellish moment, it hadn't been a little boy's body. He'd had some kind of hallucination- the same kind of thing he was thinking he was seeing now. He'd seen ashes, his son's body burnt to nothing more than carbon. He pushed it away from his mind. It couldn't be related at all. 

He was torn from his denial by the sound of the phone. He set the booties down on the coffee table as he walked through his comfortable living room. He picked up the phone before it rang a third time and heard a breathy, deep voice not quite laughing at him. 

"John, you're next and you know it," the voice said. 

Doggett frantically gestured at Mulder, then mouthed, 'it's him' silently when he'd captured Mulder's attention. Immediately, Mulder pulled out his cell phone and started calling. 

"Keep him talking," Mulder said. 

"No, I guess I don't know that," Doggett said into the phone. 

"You'll be just as easy as all the rest," the voice promised him and Doggett couldn't help the shudder, the electric snake of fear that spiraled up and down his spine. "Don't think because you've found a new boyfriend that I can't get to you. You'll be mine." 

Doggett almost protested that Mulder wasn't a boyfriend, but good sense kept his mouth stoppered on that. It was a good sign. It meant it might not have occurred to the guy that someone might be hunting for him at the same time he was hunting for Doggett. That he didn't think that Mulder was there just to investigate him. In fact, the guy sounded strangely more like a jealous boyfriend than anything. 

"How do you think you're going to get to me?" Doggett said. Actually, he could think of half a dozen ways that a determined someone might break into the house. Sometimes, having been a beat cop did no good for one's peace of mind, especially not when you lived in a suburb where it just wasn't done to put bars on the first story windows. 

"I'll be waiting for you," the voice said. "I'll be waiting for the moment when you let your guard down. When you sleep. When your boyfriend is gone. I am everywhere you are, John. I was at the restaurant this morning. I watched you buy lunch. Coffee and polish sausage can't be very good for that baby of yours, John." 

"You enjoying this?" John demanded, fear now turning to fury again. "I hope you're enjoying this now while you can, you bastard. Because I am going to hunt you down like the monster that you are and I don't think you're going to be doing very much getting to me or anyone else when you're frying in the chair." 

There was a moment of that deep, breathy laughter again, then nothing as they guy hung up. Mulder looked relieved. 

"They got a trace," he said. "Pay phone not far from here. They're sending squad cars immediately." 

"You really think they're going to find anything when they get there?" Doggett asked, sure they wouldn't. This guy had slipped under their radar before and dollars to doughnuts he wouldn't have risked a bragging call like that unless he knew he could make a quick departure from the scene. This was the guy that could be in and out of a scene, carnage left behind him, in less time than the police could respond to a 911 call. 

The phone rang again and Doggett jumped. Chiding himself for being so jumpy, he reached for the phone. 

"John Doggett," he said, firmly, pushing any hint of fear out of his voice. 

"John, this is Monica," said a familiar, feminine voice on the other end of the line. "I happened to be in DC and I got this feeling about you." 

Oh, another one of Monica's "feelings". She'd never come right out and said that she had ESP or any of that crap. But all the time she was talking about her feelings and she didn't mean in the typical 'we have to talk' relationship sense either. 

"What sort of feeling?" he asked. He hadn't talked to or seen Monica for months and months. Since before he'd gotten pregnant. Since the day he'd gently, but firmly made it clear to her that a relationship with her just wasn't going to happen. Oh, hell, that meant she didn't know about the baby or any of that. Well, she hadn't heard it from him at least and probably didn't know. Not unless the rumor mill had gotten to her. Even money said she hadn't heard. Communication between those at regional level and those here at the Hoover was spotty at best. 

"That you're in danger, greater danger than you've ever been in," she said. "And that your life is in the middle of irrevocable change." 

"Well, you're right about the change part," he said, wondering what the best way to break it to her about the baby would be. 

"Can I come over, John?" she asked. "I'm not far away. My hotel is in Tyson's Corner. But right now I'm sitting in my car outside of your house." 

Doggett walked over to the window and peeked out between the slats of the blinds, he could see a silver rental sedan with a shadowy figure sitting inside of it. The shadowed figure seemed female, with long dark hair. Monica. 

"If it's not a good time, I'll come back," she said. 

"No, it's fine," he said, only because it seemed rude to keep her out there if she was already waiting. They hadn't exactly parted on bad terms but it hadn't exactly been good terms either. "Come on in." 

As he watched, a woman got out of the car. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. Tall, slender, dark. She'd always seemed absolutely fearless. If he'd been inclined to women at all, he could have gone for her in a big way. As it was, she pushed none of the right buttons in him and he could live with that. Afterall, having your buttons pushed in the right way wasn't exactly comfortable, as evidenced by having Mulder right here by his side. He was so aware of Mulder's presence that he could almost feel him though the man stood a good twenty feet away now. Like Doggett's skin had some kind of attenuated nerve endings that stretched between himself and Mulder. Not comfortable, not in the slightest. He wished that things were as easy between Mulder and himself as they were between him and Monica. 

Monica walked up to the house, a beautiful woman traipsing gracefully on high heels. It was only then that Doggett realized that either somepoint along the way, he'd picked up the booties again or he'd never set them down in the first place like he'd intended. He was holding them tightly, crushing them in one hand. He forced himself to open his hand and set them down on the table by the entry before he put down the phone and went to answer the door. 

* * *

Monica Reyes wasn't sure what she'd been expecting when the door to John's house opened to her. Not this. And yet, it didn't surprise her in the slightest somehow. There was a certain cosmic rightness to the situation. 

She was well aware of the fact that John was gay, not that he'd ever told her so himself. But during that last talk they'd had months ago, as he'd been fumbling around, trying to find the words to let her down easy, it had suddenly come to her, a blossom of understanding opening slowly as he spoke. He was gay, and it was no strike against her. It was nothing personal that he didn't want her. 

At first, it wasn't exactly that she'd been angry, but she'd gone off to lick the wounds of humiliation. And by the time she'd recovered enough to feel inclined to talk to him, it'd been a few months already, and it was at the point where it started to feel awkward to think of just calling him casually. But she'd been in DC for the week, at the behest of Brad, who'd been trying to woo her back. And she hadn't intended to call John, but as she'd slept last night, indeed, all morning as she'd been trying to concentrate on the man who actually did want her, her mind kept drifting to disturbing images. John in danger. John being killed. Seas of red and fire and John in the middle of it all. John engulfed by...evil. It disturbed her so much that by lunch she'd made up her mind to go see him. By the end of the afternoon, she knew that she had to go see him immediately as soon as she could make her excuses to Brad. It was almost without thinking that she'd gotten into her rental and found her way to Falls Church. 

But then John had opened the door. There'd been a roundness to his abdomen that she hadn't been expecting. Her mind ran through a list of possible sicknesses first before she came to the only reasonable conclusion. 

She made another conclusion as she stepped up to hug John and over his shoulder, she spotted a handsome man, dressed in a suit like he'd just come from work, hovering in the background. Yes, she'd been right about the understanding she'd come to the last time she'd seen John. He was gay. He'd found himself someone. She was happy for John, and she had immediate good feelings about this man he'd found for himself. Something about the man said 'federal agent' all over the place, and not just the Smith and Wesson partially revealed on his belt holster. The man exuded confidence and stood with an easy grace, as if ready for action at any moment. She met the man's eyes briefly, then turned her attention completely back to John. 

She savored the hug for a moment, the delicious, androgynous contrast between the hard, masculine muscles of his arms, back, legs, and the firm, but feminine roundness of his pregnant belly. He was so beautiful, looking the way he did. Understanding and an undeniable warmth welled up in her, love flowing like a fountain. She understood and any awkwardness between them, at least on her side, disappeared. He clung to her tightly at least for a short while, he squeezed her tight to his body as if he had not just skin hunger, but skin starvation. As if no one had touched him lovingly in far, far too long. But he didn't allow himself the comfort of her arms long and backed away from her, pushing her out to arms length less than a minute later. 

"Oh, John," she said as she stepped back from their brief hug. She suppressed an urge to put her hands right on his belly. Just the thought of it was so inviting, but his body language clearly said this wouldn't be welcome. He was normally such a self-contained, totally private person, open to almost no one, not even his own wife. "I'm so happy for you. That you found someone and you're going to have a family. Maybe I was wrong, about my feeling that you were in danger.." 

"Monica, let me clear up a little misunderstanding," John said. He stepped slightly to the side so that the man who'd been hovering in the background could move forward. "This here is Agent Fox Mulder. We're working a case together. Agent Mulder, this is Agent Monica Reyes. She's out of the New Orleans field office and an old friend of mine." 

Monica felt her heart plummet a little. But she was also sure that even if it hadn't been spoken of on either side, there was something between the two men. This Agent Mulder stood a little too close to John, and there'd been a brief flash of hurt in his eyes as he heard himself described as mere coworker and not lover. Feelings as deep as oceans ran there. Monica's heart beat a little faster as she puzzled some pieces of information together. Fox Mulder, she'd never met him before, but she'd heard of him. Who hadn't? Spooky Mulder was a Bureau legend. They'd talked about him at the Academy and not just about his current obsessions with the paranormal, but about how he'd earned the nickname in the first place. Was he here in capacity of profiler? Because the andropregnancy murderer had been all over the front page this morning, and because John was now standing in front of her pregnant, and therefore, presumably in danger. 

"Oh, John!" she couldn't help saying. "You are in danger. Just like I felt." 

"Why don't you come in, Monica," John said. He put a hand on her shoulder and led her into his living room, to the sofa. 

She was always surprised by his house, especially by his living room, how it was so warm and comfortable, just so uncompromisingly masculine. He still had the big leather sofa, the one she was sitting on now, the wood blinds, the sturdy coffee table. It would all probably would hold up well under children too, she thought. John took an arm chair, probably because it was easier to push himself out of. 

Before he could say anything more, a cell phone rang. All of them automatically checked to see if it was theirs. Mulder was the lucky one. She watched John tensely, almost on the edge of his chair, watch Mulder talk on the phone. Mulder for his part kept the storms of anger only temporary as he listened. Mulder mostly listened but at the end, he said, "I didn't think they'd find him. Keep canvassing. Someone has to have seen him use that phone." 

Mulder shut his phone down impatiently, then shared another look with John. Yes, something going on there that neither of them had acknowledged yet. It wouldn't take much longer, she was sure. 

But, if John and Mulder weren't lovers yet, who was the other father of John's baby? It didn't exactly seem like the time to ask. 

* * *

Mulder's phone rang again. It was Scully. 

"Mulder, where are you?" she asked. Then when he told her, she continued, "We agreed we'd meet at the surveillance van twenty minutes ago. We agreed that the unsub couldn't be allowed to think that John wasn't alone. We have to have him be alone in the house or else won't be able to flush the unsub out." 

Reluctance could hardly explain how little he wanted to leave John alone right now. He tried to sell himself on the thought that jealousy of this Monica Reyes woman had nothing to do with it, but he wasn't buying that. She seemed a little too close and chummy for Mulder. It surprised him how much it had stung though to see how quickly John had jumped on the chance to correct Agent Reyes mistaken suppositions about what they were doing together. Even if you cut jealousy out of the equation, the last thing he wanted to do was leave John alone. He'd seen just how much that phone call had shaken John. Even now, minutes later, full color had not returned to John 's face. His eyes, his whole expression was so guarded, such a contrast from the relaxed moment of sleep that Mulder had witnessed not much more than half an hour ago. That and the little welcoming present that had been waiting for them on the front porch, the last thing in the world that Mulder's good sense was telling him to do was to leave this man alone to face whatever demons might crawl in at a vulnerable moment. And even though the surveillance van was mere moments away, people could die in mere moments. His every instinct was telling him that it was mistake, a huge mistake to leave John here alone. No, his instinct told him to get every cop and federal agent available to guard John. 

"We came across something unexpected when we arrived, Scully," he told his partner. Then he explained briefly about the booties. "I'm not sure we should go through with the plan. It's too dangerous. The potentials for danger here are greater than any contingency we've come up with." 

"Mulder, we don't have another choice," Scully said. "And we've gone over this before. We can have someone on the scene in less than a minute the instant we discover any kind of trouble. It's encouraging, actually. That means we might get him sooner than later." 

"Scully," Mulder said, finally. "I'll talk to you later." 

It seemed as if something, something deeply personal was clouding Scully's normally rational judgment and he just couldn't even think about beginning to untangle the threads of that knot right at the moment. Too much was happening and he could barely think clearly himself. In any case, feelings ran high. In this case in particular, there were so many triggers to deep emotional switches that Mulder could hardly begin to enumerate them. He tried to put all that aside and not let anger at Scully do the thinking for him. 

It was just that he could feel the perp as if they were in the same room. It was a pricking of the hairs on the back of his neck. It was that certain speeding of his heart and breath- his body telling him fight or flee, that he was in the presence of a dangerous predator. 

Meanwhile, as Mulder tried to get himself together, this new woman, this friend of John's was busily falling apart. She hadn't started crying. No, this was more subtle than that, but Mulder could read it in the slight quaver in her voice, in a very slight hesitation as she reached out for John's hand, as if controlling a tremor first. 

"John," she said. "We have to get you out of here." 

"Monica," John said impatiently. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm our best shot at catching this guy. He got one of my friends and seventeen other men already. I'm not letting this one go." 

"You have to," Reyes said. "I keep seeing you in blood and fire. A kind of vision. And you burned to ashes." 

As Mulder watched, the startle reaction from John couldn't be missed. Something she'd said had tripped some kind of memory in him, some traumatic memory. She was ripping open some old wound by just talking about it. 

"It was like Luke," Reyes said. "You remember, when we found Luke. You saw it. You've seen it again, haven't you? John, what if this killer is somehow related to Luke's death?" 

This was starting to get interesting and Mulder was sure that what John had seen at the crime scenes, both at Peter Van Buren's and at the street kid's was just the kind of vision that Reyes was describing. 

But before he could say anything, ask anything about this, John was up and moving. He'd walked back over to where he'd reluctantly set the booties down earlier and he picked them up again. He cradled them gently in one hand this time, rather than crushing them. But then he clenched that hand and turned away. 

"Out," John said. No, more like demanded. "Get out. Both of you. Now. I see what you're trying to do here, but this case ain't going to be solved by calling up the psychic friends network. It's going to be solved by solid police work." 

"John," Reyes said, trying to sound softly conciliatory, but Mulder recognized the zealous gleam in her eyes. He'd seen it in his own too often. There was something in her that was very much like him, some willingness to believe. He wondered what else they might have in common. 

"Get out of my house! Now," John said. It wasn't exactly a roar. It was more of a rumble that was working its way up to full volume. Mulder wondered what the man would be like worked up to completely pissed off. He might be one of those guys that was a full-fledged force of nature. 

John didn't wait to see them leave, but brushed past them and made his way to the stairs. He went up the stairs heavily treading on the steps as he went. He supported his back with one hand pressed to its vulnerable curve. It must have ached something fierce, Mulder thought. 

"Let's go," he said to Agent Reyes. 

"We can't go and leave him alone," Reyes said. "Agent Mulder. We can't." 

"Agent Reyes," Mulder said. "John is wired. If anything happens near him, help will be right here. We've got plain clothes cops all over the neighborhood. He wanted us to leave, we should leave." 

Actually, it was only with great reluctance that Mulder was willing to leave John behind alone in the house. But that had been a direct order to vacate the property. And besides, Mulder wanted to get this Agent Reyes alone and ask her a few questions. If John wouldn't tell him anything about his visions, this Reyes surely would. 

"I still don't like it," Reyes said, but she'd already stood up from the sofa and was looking around the room for her bag and coat. 

Mulder didn't either. Not one bit. 

* * *

Somehow or another Agent Mulder had pried her out of John's house against her better judgment. John might have directly asked them to leave, but it was clear that he was so upset he wasn't thinking clearly. Given the possible threat, he shouldn't be left alone, plainclothes cops seconds away or not. 

Monica found herself sliding her chair into a table and looking at a menu, with Agent Mulder doing the same thing across from her. They were in the closest restaurant they could find to John's house, a decision that had been made tacitly between them once she'd accepted Mulder's suggestion they get some dinner together while he asked her a few questions. He'd asked her if he could ask her a few questions and she couldn't find any reasons to object. If for no other reason than that she wanted to pump him for some information as well. 

"How long have you known Agent Doggett?" Mulder asked as Monica looked at the menu. 

There were words on it, that much she could tell. They seemed to be English words. She should be able to read it, no problem, but it was as if it had been translated into some foreign tongue, something she couldn't quite parse nor divine the syntax of. To think of John in such danger had shifted her world along some critical axis. Perhaps it was thinking of that case again, the one that still, in her vulnerable moments, made her weep to think of it. The case that had cut closer to her bone than any case before or since. 

"For some years now," Monica said, thinking of how fragile John had seemed the first time she'd laid eyes on him, reduced from tough city cop to grieving father. "We worked a case together. Or rather, I worked the case, the hardest I've ever had. Run to the bathroom and cry your eyes out hard. John's son, Luke, had gone missing. We found him, finally, but it was too late. He'd been dead days already, possibly dead since just hours after he'd gone missing." 

She thought of the other details of the case. The anal rape of the little boy that the M.E. had been persuaded to leave out of the autopsy report because the perp had worn a condom and there was no genetic evidence. It only would have brought more heartache to John to know that. She thought of small, crumpled, unmoving heaps. She thought of John's white-knuckled hours, of the big, shell-shocked eyes of his wife Barbara, who'd gone all the way through crying and out the other side by the time Monica had come into the case. She thought of searching that field, of how John had seemed like a zombie when they'd made their discovery, when he'd discovered that knowing could be just as much a nightmare as not knowing. 

It made her crave a cigarette like never before. Her familiar comfort, now denied to her by another attempt of herself to gain control over this unruly and unhealthy craving. She reached for her purse and pulled a pack out, not of cigarettes, but of the hated nicotine gum. Agent Mulder didn't raise his eyebrows at the no-doubt recognizable pack of little white squares but it seemed an effort for him to not do so. She explained sheepishly, "I'm quitting. A month without." 

Even so, even as she popped the little chiclet of gum into her mouth, the anticipation of the mild rush of the drug was cold comfort when what she really wanted was just one damn cigarette. She wanted the deep, hot pull of smoke down into her lungs. Something to make her hands stop shaking. 

Feeling marginally better, she continued, "I don't know how much more I should tell you about this. But it goes without saying that John and his wife were devastated." 

"You mention that you and Agent Doggett saw some kind of vision connected with the death of this son," Mulder said, not quite a question, more just an invitation for her to talk. As he spoke, she paid more attention to the shape of his face, his strong jawline, the nose that should have been oversized, but seemed somehow suited to the overall symmetry of him. He was beautiful and somehow, she couldn't feel jealous that more tension had smoldered between him and John in a few brief minutes than ever had between her and John. 

"I felt Luke surrounded by evil. When we found him, I don't know if it was a psychic experience or what, but I saw him changed into ashes. John saw it too, though he's spent the last several years trying to convince himself he never saw it." 

"And this is related to our current case you think?" Mulder asked. 

Monica thought carefully for a moment, unsure of exactly how much to say. This one didn't seem uninclined to believe her, but he was also somewhat wary, not appearing completely at ease with her. "I get these feelings," she said, finally. "Intimations, I suppose. I keep seeing John in my minds eye, and what I see is him changed to ashes, like in the experience that I had of his son. I know what you're thinking, Agent Mulder, but what if there is some kind of thread of evil, connecting all of these cases? Connecting through time, through men, through opportunity. Finally connecting to John somehow. In India, in Africa, in Iran, in the Middle East, in the Far East. Most of the world, they take it as a given. They see evil in death the way other people see God in a rose." 

Agent Mulder paused to consider what she'd said. "If, as you say, you think this case is somehow linked, however tenuously, to the death of Agent Doggett's son, was an arrest made? Any suspects at least?" 

"They brought in a man named Bob Harvey, but released him. They had no kind of proof, but even without proof, I always felt strongly that he was connected in some way." 

Mulder smiled wryly and this was the moment that she truly started liking him. It was a brief, fleeting grin, evidence of a good humor despite everything. "Well, everything we've done so far is grasping at straws, may as well grasp at a few more. Any idea where he is so we can start looking for him." 

"He's not far from here," she said. "He traveled around a lot. He died in a traffic accident just outside of the VA hospital. I always made a point of keeping track of him, hoping for some kind of break, something that would link him to Luke's death. He was our only lead." 

Mulder swallowed hard, smiling no longer, but staring at her with avid interest. She'd been expecting disappoint but didn't find it. "Which VA hospital was that exactly?" he asked. 

* * *

Scully was parked in an unmarked car in front of a house a mere few doors down from Doggett's house. Mulder had wanted them to be closer, but they were afraid of alerting the perp, so they'd compromised. A few houses down, not blocks away. Mulder approached the car, carrying a brown paper bag for which Scully would undoubtedly be grateful. He slid into the seat beside her and handed her the bag, takeout from the restaurant he'd gone to with Monica. 

"I wasn't sure if you were on one of your salad kicks or a yogurt kick, so I got both," Mulder said as Scully started rummaging through the bag. 

"Mulder, if you brought me a coffee, it's love for sure this time," she said. 

"Sorry, must be fate. Iced tea," he said, putting a big styrofoam cup into her hands. Scully must have been starving because she tore into the salad immediately, eating for long minutes with no words passing between them, only the sounds of molars grinding up iceberg for break from the heavy silence of the suburban neighborhood. After the lettuce gnashing paused for a while, he spoke up again. "Scully, are we sure this is the only way to do this? This guy no doubt has this place all sized up. Maybe he can't butcher John in the time it'd take us to get there, but he could kill him quickly and still get out before we get there." 

"I don't know what else to do, Mulder," she said, her voice twisting in that way that long friendship had taught him that Scully was about to break down into weeping. "I just don't. None of the other leads we have is anything more than vapor it seems. What else can we do? Agent Doggett did agree to do this voluntarily. I'm sorry Mulder, but "we have to catch this man. We can't allow him to do this anymore." 

"But we don't have to do it this way," Mulder said. "Are you okay, Scully?" 

He couldn't see in the dark car, but he would have testified in court that she was silently weeping. "I'm fine," she said. Of course, fine for Scully was the exactly opposite of the dictionary meaning of the word. 

"You're too close to this case," he said, a sudden flash of insight illuminating the night. "This isn't about the men. This is about their children. You'll do anything to protect the unborn, because..." 

"Oh, Mulder," she said, then starting crying in earnest and awkwardly in his arms despite a steering wheel and other assorted driving impedimenta being in the way. Her salad was forgotten, hopefully not dropped to the floor, and she cried the tears that he had seen her confine far too soon when she'd found out the bad news about her own reproductive ability. Her last chance hadn't taken. There wouldn't be any others. "It's just so hard for me to come to terms with the fact that I can't. That there won't be any babies for me." 

She cried a long time, but finally separated herself from him and she said, "It's not too late. We can stand down the operation. Get John out of there and to a safehouse. I'll trust your judgment." 

"I think we need to ask Agent Doggett too," Mulder said, thinking of John's state when he'd last seen the man. "I think he's even more set on this than you are." 

* * *

"No, we are not going to stand this thing down. We're doing this, we're catching this guy, hear me?" Doggett said into the phone. He didn't quite slam the receiver down, but he didn't exactly handle it gently either. Agent Scully calling and wanting to shut the operation down and get him put away under lock and key and armed guard. He wasn't going to stand for it. 

Once the righteous fury had slipped slowly but surely away from him, leaving him unsustained by anger, restlessness crept in to take its place. He felt strange about pacing in his own house, so he forced himself to stop walking the upstairs hallway. But sitting still enough to read or even watch television seemed impossible. He felt like his skin was itching. No, that wasn't quite it, but like his skin was a few sizes too small and about to crack and peel off at any moment. 

He was about to head downstairs again, maybe to work at the computer, then he stopped at the top of the stairs, thinking about something that Mulder had asked at the beginning of the day. Which room was going to be the baby's room? He had to start thinking about that. Had to plan for the future. He turned back from the stairs and looked at the hallway. Four bedrooms total, one, the biggest, was already his. The one on the other side of the bathroom, he dismissed as being to far away from his own room. 

He walked into each of the two other rooms, one after another. The one on the left side of his room was big, looked out over the front yard. He knew that it was sunny. The room on the left side of his room was smaller, cut into by the bathroom, but as he walked into it, he suddenly pictured it as the place. Sun would flood in giant puddles of gold light during the long afternoons. It'd be quieter because it looked out over the backyard. He looked out the window to the yard, not seeing much in the not quite pitch darkness, but picturing a swing set in the middle of the lawn, maybe a sandbox. 

And at that moment, any fear for himself fled, replaced iota for iota with anger. Because no one was going to kill a child of his, not again. Whatever it took to protect this baby, to provide for her, he'd do it. 

And he could start by making a room for her. He thought of himself as much neater and cleaner than average, but like anyone he seemed to accumulate his share of junk. This room was full of random things. Boxes of old books never unpacked from when he'd first moved in. He thought maybe his old college textbooks might even be in some of them. There were a couple of boxes that were labelled as "Files 2000." In the corner were piled some sports equipment- leg pads and arm pad from a martial arts class he'd taken. There was a tennis racket. When had he last played tennis? Was that whole box over there completely filled with old National Geographics? 

He couldn't do much tonight, but he could start by hauling this all away. He set to work, mind finally completely pushing away any thoughts of Mulder or Monica, and mostly forgetting that there was some kind of creep out there, just waiting for an opening. 

Half an hour later, he was startled to realize that the doorbell was ringing. He put down the pile of National Geographics that he'd been about to move to the room across the hallway and hurried downstairs. On the stairs, he reached a hand for his belt, where his gun should have been and cursed silently when he remembered that he'd taken the holster off while working on the room. He double backed as the bell rang again. You never knew though. This perp just might attempt a frontal assault through a partially opened door. 

At the front door, he peered through the peephole. Not a stranger. Knowle. 

Doggett hurried to let Knowle in, turning the deadbolt, opening the doorhandle. "This isn't a real good time, Knowle," Doggett said, even as he opened the door just enough to let the man in. 

"I just wanted to pass on some advice," Knowle said. He didn't take off his black trench coat or seem inclined to move into the main part of the living room. 

"What kind of advice?" Doggett asked, interested in what the tall man had to say. Knowle was some kind of intelligence operative. Doggett wasn't even sure which, whether CIA or more secret than that. But he'd shared information that had been useful to Doggett before, dropped hints that had turned into leads. And the shiver that just ran up and down Doggett's spine like the varsity track team had nothing whatsover to do with any kind of residual tension from the time when Doggett had really been considering making a move on Knowle. Tell yourself that again, Johnboy, Doggett thought. It's just hormones and this guy is bad news, period. You don't know what he does, you don't know for sure if he's ever told you the truth about who he is. You don't even know who he works for. 

"Word travels quickly around," Knowle said. Damn but he was one handsome bastard though. 

"Word of what?" 

"Word of certain company that you've been keeping, John," Knowle said. "It's not real healthy for your career to spend too much time working with Fox Mulder." 

Doggett had almost forgotten about the wire, but he was almost immediately cognizant of it again. He and Knowle weren't the only ones listening to this conversation. Mulder himself might even be listening on the other side of the line. Doggett knew what everyone at the Bureau said about Mulder, but from his personal experience with the man, Doggett had come to the conclusion that Bureau rumor was a brush that had tarred a little too broadly in Mulder's case. It wasn't off the mark entirely, but it wasn't all in truth. And if there was one thing Doggett had learned from years of being a cop, it was to come to your own conclusions on the basis of the evidence. 

And Doggett wasn't even sure this wasn't entirely informed by jealousy. There'd been brief time when Knowle had come onto him hot and heavy, even though he hadn't seemed too disappointed when Doggett had cooled things off. 

"I'm working a case with him, Knowle," Doggett said. "Mulder and his partner are hunting a serial killer and it happens I'm perfect bait for this perp. That's all." 

"I'm just warning you, John," Knowle said. "I just want you to watch your ass, that's all." 

Knowle stared at Doggett in a way that let him know that Knowle was concerned about his ass because of a particular fondness for it. 

"I'm glad you're thinking of me, Knowle," Doggett said. "But I know what I'm doing, and like I said, this isn't exactly a good time for this chin wag." 

With that, Knowle slipped out the door and away into the night. Not quite like a snake, Doggett thought, but not unlike one either. 

Doggett shut the door with a good bit more firmness than was truly necessary, then threw the deadbolt home. Damn Knowle and his infernal creeping into everything. Damn everything. 

* * *

Mulder couldn't sit still. He should be able to do this. Be able to keep his surveillance position in the darkened car. Too much was at stake if he screwed it up. And yet it was precisely because so much was at risk that he found it hard not to be doing anything, just waiting. He crunched sunflower seed after seed, spitting them into the styrofoam cup that he, not Scully, had ended up draining of iced tea. It'd been empty of liquid hours ago and was now filled almost halfway with the remnaints of gray and cream striped seeds. He was adding more of the husks to it every minute. And only the memory of John's anger kept him in his seat and not crawling out of the car, back into John's house. 

"I can't stand this any longer," Mulder complained. "He knows we're here. He's not going to act so long as we're waiting for him. He's too cagey for that. He's going to wait until it appears that our attention has slipped." 

Mulder had been watching the lights in John's house. They'd gone out one by one hours ago. That was by agreement, to make it look as if John had gone to bed. The plan, at least, had been for John to wait up in a darkened room. Mulder hoped that that was the case, that John hadn't drifted to sleep, lulled by the quiet and darkness, and still not caught up from a regrettably short night of sleep last night. Still, nothing happened. There was no noise except the soft swish of cars from a nearby major road and the usual quiet buzz of a residential neighborhood, then, as the night continued and the sky turned to gray, the calls of birds, announcing the start of another day. 

* * *

Doggett had curled up on the couch, intending to stay awake for the whole night. He didn't even realize he'd drifted to sleep until he startled away by the first passing motes of sunlight reaching his eyes. 

"Damn," he muttered to himself, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His neck appeared to have been welded into some new, creative angle while he'd sleep, someone had replaced the inside of his eyelids with something that most closely resembled sandpaper and had put Locktite into all his joints. He made his way to his feet, feeling his joints creek with stiffness, wondering how he was going to do it once he was further along, and feeling grateful that his slip hadn't cost him his life. 

He sought out his cell phone and dialed Agent Scully's number, not quite ready to talk to Mulder yet. 

"Scully," she said, sounding far more cheerful than him, but full from anything that might be mistaken for a good mood. 

"Agent Scully, this is John Doggett," he said. "Sounds like we've had a quiet night." 

"Agent Mulder believes that our unsub is aware of our presence and is not going to make any move so long as you're under surveillance," Scully said. "Mulder believes that an alternative approach is going to be necessary." 

"What's he got in mind?" Doggett asked. "Can I talk to him?" 

"No," Scully said. "He just left. He's gone back to the Bureau to crosscheck some new information against the searching he's already done of VA records. He hasn't made any alternative suggestions for how to run this operation. I guess we'll discuss tactics when you and I get into work. Given the incident of yesterday, we're going to leave a team in place in your neighborhood during the day." 

"Agent Scully," Doggett said. "I don't think this guy's coming back here, not so long as he knows someone's in place." 

"Mulder seems to think he'll be returning to scene, that he has a compulsion to do so," Scully said. 

* * *

Mulder was buried eyeballs deep in VA records when the door to his basement office opened. 

Scully walked in, looking pale and exhausted, having gone without sleep for the second night in a row. Her eyes were a brighter red than her hair. John was following her, looking better rested, though still on the edge. 

"You have anything new?" Scully asked. 

Mulder looked at John, then at Scully, both of them seemed fragile, as if about ready to break from this pressure. He himself was back to the edge, but in the way that meant he was about to reach into the void and pull a monster out of a hat again. He could feel that energy building. But he remembered John's outburst of the night before, that absolute refusal to consider any explanation beyond the most purely physical. The sudden and unthinking anger that came when they'd tried to link the previous tragedy of his son's death with anything supernatural. And even more anger when you tried to link the current spree of deaths with that. 

And yet, it had the right feel to Mulder. This was the way to go. He could feel it in his bone. This was no dead end. 

The only question was, could John withstand bringing this up? 

"In 2000, a man named Bob Harvey died in an auto accident less than a block away from a VA hospital," Mulder began. 

"Wait a minute. Who's Bob Harvey?" Scully asked. 

"A suspect in the death of Agent Doggett's son, Luke, later released for lack of evidence linking him to the death," Mulder began. 

"You leave that alone, Mulder," John began angrily. "You stay out of my business. Don't go making something out of nothing." 

"Agent Doggett, what if there is some kind of connection?" Mulder said. "Something like Agent Reyes suggests. Something that links the cases, the men, through time and across distance. Some kind of malevolent force at work." 

John seemed on the verge of turning around and walking right out of the basement, but as Mulder spoke, he remained planted where he was. Something in what Mulder was saying, whether tone or content or just eye contact was getting through to him. So Mulder continued, "Agent Reyes describes a phenomena she saw upon the discovery of your son's body, Agent Doggett. She saw him turn to ashes, a kind of psychic transformation. She claims to be experiencing a similar phenomenon now, visions related to the previous one. And she and I both believe you are seeing something like you once saw happen to your son. You're seeing it at the crime scene. Something that upsets you far beyond what a crime scene should upset a trained, seasoned investigator like yourself. Now, I correlated the records of that VA hospital and came up with a short list of thirteen men either released that day or receiving treatment at the outpatient clinic, who match my profile in terms of age and previous medical procedures. All but two of them still live in the DC area." 

"What's the connection here, Mulder?" Scully asked. "I don't see it. Surely it's just coincidence that this suspect died in front of a VA hospital and your profile for this case specifies a veteran." 

"You know, when I, uh... I first came to work at the FBI, I worked at Violent Crimes, and I saw, I saw the worst of humanity. I saw monsters and I wondered how they became that way, how these men became so evil," Mulder said. He struggled for a while to shape the words exactly to fit his meaning, but when he did, the words just flowed smooth as silk. And it seemed to be working. If nothing else, John hadn't burst into denial that he'd seen this phenomenon. If anything, John seemed to have an innate honesty that would work in Mulder's favor here. "I know there were psychological explanations-- victims of their environment, victims of their parents-- but the scientific explanations were never truly satisfying. And I began to think about evil like, like a disease. Most of us walk around thinking we're incapable of any acts of evil and we are. You know, we can stifle that momentary urge to kill or to hurt. We have some kind of immunity to it. But I think it's possible that there's... an occurrence in somebody's life, a tragedy or a loss that leaves them vulnerable, hurts their immunity to evil, and all of a sudden at that point in their lives when they're weakened, they're open to evil and they can become evil." 

"If what you're saying is true, then the man we're hunting is infected with evil. The same evil that killed my son. Do you really believe that?" Doggett asked. 

"I'm not really a good test for questions like that," Mulder admitted. "I'll believe almost anything you know. But here's the pisser. It could be a random and meaningless coincidence, or it could be the only link that we can make to this guy." 

"You said you had a list?" John asked. "Let's see it." 

Of course. It made sense that John would be procedure bound and he'd be more comfortable if you presented him with something solid, like a list. Mulder produced the list and handed it to John, who scanned it briefly, then started looking around, as if wanting a chair. Mulder gestured at his own chair and John took his place behind Mulder's desk. 

"Seems like we'd better get going on figuring out where these guys are now," John said. 

* * *

"Hell," Doggett said after half a mornings work. He checked his watch. Luckily, the doctor's office was only a few minutes away from the Hoover on foot. He could still make it on time. Assuming that it was still business as usual at Dr. Kosciusko's office. Peter had always seemed to be the grease that kept the wheels of that place rolling smoothly. Doggett took out his phone and punched in the numbers. 

A strange voice, a woman's answered, "Dr. Kosciusko's office." 

The woman sounded crisp and efficient, not quite cold, but definitely totally professional, normally something he would have appreciated in a receptionist, but this morning he just felt a sharp ache at the fact that it wasn't Peter's warm, fluttery voice saying, "Oh, hi, sweetie," at him. 

"This is John Doggett," he said. "I have an appointment this morning to see Dr. Kosciusko's physician's assistant but I wasn't sure if things around your office would be running as normal today. Considering about Peter." 

"We'll be closed the day after tomorrow for Mr. Van Buren's funeral," the woman said. "But other than that, all appointments are scheduled as normal." 

He grieved at the thought that it was just business as usual and that the kind, gentle man who'd made a point of befriending Doggett at a point where Doggett didn't have many friends could just be replaced by some nameless woman from a temp agency. 

"I'll be there in a few minutes," he said, because there was nothing else for it. "I might be running a little bit late." 

Doggett hung up and noticed that at some point during the call, Mulder had finished his own call and was watching Doggett closely. Doggett ignored him and reached for his coat. 

"Where are you going?" Mulder asked. 

"I have a short medical appointment," Doggett said, more irritated at the phone call than at anything Mulder had said. "I'll be right back. Dr. Kosciusko's office is right around the corner practically." 

"I'll go with you," Mulder stood and reached for his own coat. 

Doggett was about to protest automatically that he didn't need to be escorted a mere couple of blocks, but then he remembered the phone call of yesterday evening. The gilded malice of that voice. The primal fear it had inspired, speaking to the core of him. "Okay, if you don't mind," he conceded. 

As they walked out of the Hoover together, Mulder asked, "Are you okay, John? You just had an appointment the other day." 

"Look, not that it's any of your business," Doggett said. He was actually a lot less irritated by Mulder's concern than he thought he'd be. "But I'm forty. It's my first time and I'm a guy. This means I automatically get dumped into the high risk category. I've got more doctor's appointments than you've had hot dinners. That doesn't mean anything's actually wrong with me. The reason Dr. Kosciusko's so good is he covers all his bases." 

"Okay," Mulder said, mildly. He didn't ask any more questions as they strode down busy streets together. 

The day was cool, blustery and gray, the threat of more rain was immanent. The tails of their trenchcoats whipped around their legs as they walked. Doggett pulled his coat as tightly closed as he could against the wind, but he hadn't dropped the cash for a different coat and his coat was reaching the limit of how much it could cover. 

Mulder, on the other hand, made no effort to block out the wind. His trench coat flapped freely, making him look even longer and leaner somehow. More handsome. Handsome enough to drive any lingering thoughts of Knowle out of Doggett's head. 

At the doctor's office, Doggett presented himself to the receptionist's desk, where a strange bleached blond woman sat, obviously the source of the impersonal voice of earlier. "I'm John Doggett," he said, aching again as his skin seemed to expect a kind touch, a hug like Peter had been wont to give. 

The new receptionist remained decidedly behind her desk. She looked up at him like he was no one in particular and said, "Of course. You can go on in, room C. Did your...ah...husband want to go in with you?" 

Doggett looked behind his shoulder at where the receptionist had turned her eyes. Mulder. Though the temp must have been briefed on the lingo, she seemed almost excruciatingly uncomfortable with it. 

"No, he's not my spouse," Doggett said immediately. Then he had to figure out some explanation for Mulder's presence. It seemed kind of odd, suddenly, to have brought a coworker to the androcologoist with him. "He's a just a friend." 

* * *

Mulder paged through Newsweek not seeing any of it, his mind, instead, running through images pulled straight from the crime scenes, trying to pull any clues, any connections, no matter how small. This killer seemed to leave no particular calling card other than that he was so fast and so brutal. 

Less than ten minutes later, John reappeared. He was already pulling his trench coat back on. "Let's go," he said the instant he was within hearing range of Mulder. 

"Everything okay?" Mulder asked. Despite John's reassurances earlier that this was just routine, Mulder couldn't help feeling that something was really wrong, that there were complications to this pregnancy that John just wasn't telling anyone about. Not that he expected anything but denial now, but Mulder asked so he could gauge Doggett's reaction. 

A slight grimace escaped the man's purposefully impassive expression, a slight hint that the appointment might not have gone as well as he would have liked. "It went just fine," Doggett said. 

Mulder should have known that Scully wasn't the only one to use that word like she used it. As it was, he didn't question John any further and just said, "Good." 

Once out on the street, John didn't turn back towards the Hoover, but headed in the opposite direction. "You think we have a few minutes to steal?" he asked. 

"Yeah, a little while," Mulder conceded, even though he itched to get back to his searching. 

"I want to ask you something, Agent Mulder," John began. 

"So ask." 

"Last night, I don't know. Maybe you heard this. But I was warned off of you by an old friend of mine. Said it wouldn't be too healthy for my career to spend too much time working with you." 

"I'm not surprised," Mulder said. "We both know how I'm spoken of. I've just never cared much about that. It's always been the work that is more important than anything. Reputation, my career. My personal life." 

"And now?" John asked. "Sounds like you're wondering if it's still more important." 

"I found the thing I'd been looking for all along," Mulder said, thinking about his sister, long gone from the scope of earthly cares. "And I discovered that my answer led only to more questions. I've begun to wonder if there is no end to it all. No real answers." 

John had stopped in front of a coffee shop, a Starbucks that was big enough to have a handful of tables, a couple of sofas and chairs. At the middle of the day, the seating was nearly empty, even though there was a line at the counter. "You want to stop?" John asked. 

His wish to talk outside of the confines of the Hoover was so obvious that Mulder couldn't help but give in. Mulder nodded, then because he was closer to the door, he reached for it first. John didn't move to enter, still stuck on proving, Mulder thought, that he wasn't some kind of lady. Mulder walked through the door first holding it open behind him until John had caught it. 

Before long, they were settled with coffees, John with decafe. 

"I just don't know how much credit to give to what this guy says," John said. "You know I've got no one to look out for me and my baby besides myself." 

"Well, who is he?" Mulder asked. "Is he a generally reliable source? Or was it more in the way of a veiled threat?" 

"Old Marine buddy of mine," John said. "He's in intelligence now. I'm not sure who he works for though. NSA, maybe CIA." 

"But you're not sure you can trust him, otherwise you wouldn't be asking," Mulder said. "Why are you asking?" 

"Damn," John said, then he tried to turn away in the chair he'd chosen. Mulder looked right over John's shoulder to see who or what it was that John didn't want to be seen and recognized by. John caught Mulder looking and said, "Third from the counter. Big guy, bald, wears specs." 

"So?" Mulder asked. 

"Ex-boyfriend of mine. Of sorts. He was real interested in me, until we had sex and he found out I'm andro-fecund, then he just disappeared. Later, he got it together enough to ask me for a second chance. Except for by then, I was three months pregnant and that was a deal breaker as far as he was concerned." 

Mulder surreptiously examined the man in question. There was more than a passing resemblance to Skinner, at least in body type. Dressed in a good, dark gray suit, something about his manner and clothes said that he was high up on the feeding chain in some government agency. Mulder pegged him as ATF or DEA, possibly even Secret Service. His hair had retreated a bit further than Skinner's had, and the man's features were sharply handsome rather than blunt and forthright like Skinner's, but otherwise the resemblance was remarkable. They shared broad shoulders and a stance that immediately shouted ex-Marine. 

Mulder couldn't help but take a risk. He'd not given any clue thus far that he might be inclined to the left hand side of the street, but he wanted to get it out in the open. The thought of this hulk getting hot and heavy with John inspired a jealousy that he didn't realize he could possess. He was going to make some kind of move on John, no matter how subtle. 

"You've got good taste. He doesn't though," Mulder said. "Leaving you, I mean." 

The moment was lost as the big man collected his green and white paper cup and walked over to them. John grimaced just slightly, hardly perceptibly, but plastered a civil but neutral expression on his face by the time the big man got within viewing distance. 

"John," the big man said, smiling, at least at first, until John shifted, revealing his large belly more clearly. 

"Dennis," John said, not bothering to conceal a sourness in his voice. 

"You, ah, look well," Dennis said after a few seconds of awkward silence. "I've been thinking about you. You know with the situation. Is this?" 

John seemed to understand the question, even though it was asked so incompletely. "No, this is one of the lead investigators on the case. Special Agent Fox Mulder, with the FBI, one of the top profilers that the BSU has ever produced. Agent Mulder, this is an old friend of mine, Dennis Carville, with Internal Revenue." 

"I'm in Criminal Investigations," Carville said, extending his hand to Mulder, to shake hands. "But probably not for much longer." 

Carville's handshake was firm, a marvel of restrained strength, but Mulder could read some internal strain from it, some thing that was sapping that strength. 

"Figures you'd get lured to the private sector eventually," John said. "Some big accounting firm got you in their sights?" 

Carville said, "Not so much that as I'm in disgrace with the current administration right now. I've been working on international cases. Tracing terrorist money. I just couldn't stop pointing out that big money comes from certain countries that are nominally our allies and is directly funneled into the accounts of terrorists that we're purportedly fighting against. You wouldn't believe some of the connections I've found, only to have the figures change and my proof vanish on me. It almost makes a guy believe in some of those conspiracy theories. It hasn't made me real popular at work lately." 

Mulder could relate to that more than he was willing to say out loud. He wondered what a forensic accountant could dig up on the funding of a conspiracy of global proportions. It'd never occurred to him to take that tactic before. Before he could say anything, Carville had continued speaking to John. 

"I must have spent half the night awake worrying about you," Carville said, his voice and eyes softly earnest in a way that began stirring Mulder's pot of jealousy up to a roiling boil. He pulled up one of the blond wood and black metal chairs, an unused spare from another table and sat down right between Mulder and John. "Hoping that you weren't still alone. Because I knew that you'd be too stubborn to admit that you might be in danger and ask for help." 

"I spent last night under the surveillance of the Hoover's finest,' John said. "No need to worry about me. Excuse me a minute. Nature's calling." 

John got up, stopped at the counter for the key and then went to the men's room. The instant he was out of earshot, Carville fixed Mulder with a glare that was every bit as dripping with jealousy as the glare he had Carville fixed in. 

"You're more than just someone he works with, aren't you?" Carville demanded. 

Mulder nodded cautiously. He never could do anything but tell the truth, it being his touchstone, his rockfast anchor. "I hope to be," Mulder said. 

"Good," Carville said, but he didn't seem like he was pleased with the answer. "Look, I fell in love with him the instant I set my eyes on him. I still love him." 

"You've got an odd way of showing it then," Mulder said. 

"The fact that he's andro-fecund is something I regret. I can't help that I find that aspect of him unattractive, but I can't make myself overlook that. I'm gay. I want a man that's completely a man. Not a mostly male appearing hermaphrodite," Carville said. 

Mulder couldn't help but think, even though he didn't say so aloud, that he'd never met a man more masculine, more manly, than John Doggett, any physical accidents of his body aside. Being a man, as far as Mulder was concerned, had far more to do with the content of one's character than any biological limitations. 

"I've tried to convince myself," Carville continued. "But even if I can't make love to him, I love him. Please, let me know if there's anything at all I can do to help keep him safe, Agent Mulder. Any way I could help the investigation. I'm not just a desk jockey." 

No, he wasn't. Mulder could tell that from looking at him. He was a guy who was used to far more action than an audit. There wasn't any time to shape a response though. John was returning to their table even as Carville was finishing his plea. 

"Well, Agent Mulder," John said. "We'd better be getting back to work." 

* * *

They traveled back to the Hoover in uneasy silence together. There'd been a brief while of comradery, of understanding between Mulder and himself. He'd been planning to talk about things. To try and air certain feelings that he was sure that both of them could sense floating in the air between them. He wasn't exactly ready to declare love, but there was something there between them. 

Dennis' entry had destroyed the moment. It'd made almost any kind of discussion along those lines impossible, at least right now. How had he planned to breach the subject anyway? 'Agent Mulder, I'd like to jump your bones' would have worked at a different time, if Doggett knew how to read a man. If he wasn't pregnant, it'd definitely work, without a doubt. But he was pretty sure he'd have a fly's chance at a frog convention right at the moment though, considering his big belly. No way the normal ways and means would work to drag a normal man into his bed while he was knocked up like this. 

"We should get going," Doggett said, pushing any thoughts of seducing Mulder to the wayside for the moment. "Agent Reyes said she was going to have everything she could dig up on Bob Harvey ready by now." 

Doggett had always regretted letting Bob Harvey get away, and if he'd been running the investigation into Luke's death, rather than stuck onto the sidelines, he'd never would have let that one get away, because his every cop instinct had been screaming 'Guilty! Guilty!' even though the physical evidence had cleared him. 

Some sorrow must have crossed his face, escaped from the deeply hidden box he kept it in most of the time, because Mulder clapped a soft hand on Doggett shoulder and said, "I'm sorry. I can't know your particular sorrow, but I've known loss. My younger sister. I was supposed to have protected her, but she was taken from me one night. And I've spent years thinking that there must have been something else I could have done to stop it, to have found the parties responsible. I spent the best years of my life buried under the guilt of feeling that there must have been something I could have done differently." 

Mulder couldn't have spoken more true, more meaningful words to Doggett than he just did. Some key of understanding was turned in his heart and when he looked at Mulder next, it seemed that he did so with eyes that saw the man more clearly. And he found these words spilling from him. "That's why I can't believe these things, these visions, these psychic links that come so easy to you and Agent Reyes," Doggett said. "Because I have to know that I did everything that I could do to get my son back. And if these things are real, then there was something else I could have done." 

* * *

What fine insanity took him into its clutches, Mulder couldn't have said, but Mulder moved his hand from John's shoulder and pulled him into a full embrace. Not a tight one, but enough that Mulder definitively felt the round, firm mass of John's abdomen between them. John relaxed into it for just a moment, resting his head against Mulder's and his arms resting on Mulder's hips. But what a fine moment it was. 

"You did everything you could," Mulder said. "I can look at you and know that to be the truth. You did everything you could." 

"How can you say that and still believe if your supernatural experiences and then still say that everything that could have been done was done?" John asked, his face still lined with misery, as if nothing Mulder had said had gotten through to him yet. 

"I said you did everything that you could do," Mulder said. "As for the supernatural, it doesn't come at anyone's beck and call. It seems to me that its a force even more unpredictable and unexplainable than the weather or any other natural force. It's not there to be summoned when you want it and sent away when you don't." 

"I still don't believe it," John said. "What I saw, what I thought I saw, it wasn't real. It was a hallucination or something. A trick of the light." 

"What did you think you saw?" Mulder said, grateful beyond words for even this small breakthrough. "Any clue, any hint might be part of a larger pattern, something we could tie into the other evidence we have." 

"I am not saying I saw this," John said, insistently. "I'm saying I thought I saw this, and then when I looked again, it wasn't there." 

"Okay, what did you believe you saw for a moment? What tricks were your supposed overly active imagination playing on you?" 

"When I first viewed the bodies, both Peter and the kid, it looked like they were burned to ashes. Just a human shaped pile of charred flesh. Almost still burning even. But both times I looked a second time, and they were just dead bodies. And that's what they remained. And a similar thing happened when I..." 

John's speech stopped for a moment, as if this were too hard for him, the tragedy shriveling his voice inside his larynx. But a moment later, he recovered and continued. 

"I saw a similar hallucination when I first viewed the body of my son. Just for a minute, then it was gone," John said. "You think there's some link, don't you?" 

Mulder nodded slowly, then said, "But not like anything that you might expect. I don't think that the man that killed your son is the man killing these men. But I believe the same evil touched them both and that if we can pick up that trail, that connection, it will lead us straight to them." 

"Let's get back to work then," John said. 

* * *

Monica Reyes looked down at her file again for confirmation before she reached out to knock on the door in the dimly lit basement hallway. This was going to be hard news for John, no doubt about it. They'd tried to protect him from it before, and at the time, it had seemed the right decision, but like all secrets, it was coming out again. There was nothing a secret hated worse than being hidden. 

She knocked and Agent Mulder greeted her, saying, "Agent Reyes, what have you got for us?" 

She held the file close to her chest, but she spoke, "In the time between Bob Harvey's death and the time when he was being questioned in regards to his possible role in the death of Agent Doggett's son, he managed to pick himself up a felony conviction." 

They waited expectantly for her to continue, their silence a question. 

"He pleaded the charge down to cruelty to a child, simple assault and public indecency. He served less than a year and was out on parole when he died. But I called the arresting officer to get more facts on the case. He raped a little boy in a public park." 

John had gone nearly white, but he calmly asked, "Does the guy have any other record of that kind of thing? Anything that we didn't come up with when we checked him out before? You know as well as I that these guys don't just do it once. They keep doing it for as long as they can get away with." 

"No," she said. The next part was going to be the hardest, made no easier despite the fact that John already seemed to be making the connections between A and B. "I didn't find any more convictions or even arrests. John, I feel the evidence is clear. It speaks for itself. Bob Harvey did not kill your son. But what, just what if, he somehow, he got to your son before he died? What if that is our connection?" 

"Then I'd say we'd better get busy tracking down anyone he might have had contact with before he died. If, as you guys say, that evil is something that you can catch like it was the measles," John said. 

He was so brave and strong, she thought. And she decided that she wasn't going to push the matter any more, if John didn't want to face the implications right at the moment. She was sure, mortally sure now, that Bob Harvey had raped John's son, a separate crime when she had always assumed before that it must have been done by the killer. 

"Well, I hope I could help out in this investigation," she said. "Another set of feet can always come in handy, right? Are we ready to hit the streets on any of these? Got any last known addresses?" 

"A couple," said the third agent in the room. She was a small woman with red hair. Despite her petite frame and her overall exhausted look, she seemed more like a firebrand that had been banked than a fragile flower. "You must be Agent Reyes. I'm Dana Scully." 

Monica held out her hand to the petite woman. "Nice to meet you, Agent Scully." 

"Mulder, if there are four of us now," Scully said. "Wouldn't it make sense for us to split up into teams and send a pair of to do some foot canvassing, while the other two stayed here and works on the phones." 

"That's a great idea, Scully," Mulder said. He'd hardly looked up from the file he was reading so intently during the whole exchange. "John should stay here, so why don't you and Agent Reyes work on that?" 

Scully didn't seem happy with that idea, but she didn't protest. Monica didn't take it personally as it didn't seem to have anything to do with her, but more with the fact that Scully seemed to have been expecting to go out with Mulder. Monica understood. It'd been a while since she'd had a good, solid working partner, but when you did, it clicked like nothing else. Partners could get to be closer than lovers. 

In short order, Scully gathered coat and files and was out the door, Monica following. Scully moved surprisingly fast for such a small woman, enough so that Monica had to hurry to keep up. 

"Have you worked with Agent Mulder long?" Monica asked as they headed towards the parking lot. 

"Years," Scully said. 

"It must be hard, then," Monica said. She didn't have to say anything more. They had a moment of understanding, a shared look, nothing more, but one that conveyed everything. 

"You could say that," Scully said, with a wry look on her face that might have almost been mistaken for a grin. "We've got the list of easy to find people. Those with houses, business, those people who live their life above the radar. Some of people on our list aren't going to be easy to find. A number are homeless or nearly homeless. Some of them are mentally and ill and should probably be institutionalized." 

"Well, what have we got to start with?" Monica asked. 

* * *

Doggett stared at the same file he'd been staring at for a long time, the words on the paper turning to meaningless squiggles on the page. As if it wasn't hard enough to block out the implications of what Monica had been trying to say, that horrible truth that could bring him no peace. As if he wasn't pretty darn sure that it'd been a big mistake to admit his hallucinations to Mulder. As if he didn't just want to break down and beg for another hug from Mulder, because that hug earlier today had felt better than he liked to admit. Add all of those things on top of the fact that the androcologist was a thumbs' breadth from subjecting him to bed rest. His blood pressure had been up slightly. The PA had frowned and gone to get Dr. Kosciusko, who'd made grumbling noises and had just been barely convinced not to order Doggett to take medical leave at once. Doggett was convinced that if it weren't for the fact that the case he was working on was Peter's death, that Kosciusko would have ordered it. And Doggett was beginning to wonder if Kosciusko shouldn't have just sent him to bed anyway. He felt terrible, his head kind of swimmy feeling almost. It was hard to concentrate. 

"Are you alright, John?" Mulder asked after a while. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," Doggett said. "Just a bit exhausted. It's been a long day and I hardly got any sleep last night. Not that you got any more than I did." 

"I'm fine," Mulder said. "You should get some rest though. I'm going to call the Gunmen and see if they can put you up again for the night. However we get you there, it shouldn't be in your normal car. This guy is going to be watching for that." 

"Wait a minute here," Doggett protested, then wondered why he was bothering to protest. Yes, those friends of Mulder were odd, but they'd been nothing but kind. The short one, Frohike, had even been what Doggett might call gallant. "Never mind. Their guest bed is horizontal. It'll do. This is real kind of you to share your friends like this, Agent Mulder." 

"I think we're past Agent, don't you?" Mulder said, reaching for the phone. 

"Okay, it's kind of you, Fox," Doggett said. He would have leaned down and put his head on the desk, but his belly seemed an insurmountable barrier at the moment. He leaned back in his chair instead. 

* * *

A number of calls later, Mulder said, "The Gunmen are expecting you. I've arranged for a ride over to their place. He'll be here in a few minutes." 

"Who?" John asked. 

"Your ex-boyfriend, Dennis Carville. I know you're not going to be thrilled by the idea, but I did some asking around and it sounds like for an accountant, he's a hell of a shot." 

Actually, Mulder had called up to Skinner's office to ask the big guy the appropriate informal protocols for getting the skinny on an agent from a different agency. If expediency required Mulder to piss off the authorities, he was willing to pay the price, but at the moment, the need wasn't great enough, so he took the time. It turned out that Skinner knew Carville personally. DC could be a really small town sometimes and it turned out that the pair of them had worked some cases together when they were younger. Dennis passed the muster, at least as far as Skinner was concerned. 

"Great," John said. He was pissed, but Mulder just couldn't take the time. 

"He wanted to help. We can use it, John," Mulder said. Mulder's first instinct was to stick to John like epoxy, but it warred with a deep and abiding feeling about one of the VA hospital patients. One who had a black hole like absence of information about it except for VA hospital records. No last known address, no trail. Except for occasional bobs to the surface during treatment at the hospital for continuing complications due to a botched hysterectomy, the man just didn't seem to exist. 

Botched, like truly botched. Like the uterus had come out along with part of his prostate gland, messing up his urethra. Mulder wanted to have the record gone over by Scully, but his instinct told him that the surgery had been deliberately botched, which seemed to happens sometimes in these military forced hysterectomies- sort of a retaliatory measure almost. 

* * *

Monica looked at the big house and at all the other houses set on the curving cul-de-sacs of this suburban subdivision. Such an all-American place seemed to be the last place you'd expect to find sheltering a serial killer, but Monica knew that even the blandest, smoothest surface could conceal a twisted nature. Cancer lurking deep in the heart of the sweetest rosebud, she thought. 

A curving driveway cut through a huge front lawn, one that was emerald green from the week's near constant deluges. The house itself was Federal style, white with columns on the front. The only hints of occupation were the pile of in line skates by the front door, along with a couple of hockey sticks. 

"Let's get this over with," Monica said, not relishing her third conversation of the day about connections that didn't even make sense on one level. Not unless you'd had the kind of feelings she had and seen the kind of visions she'd seen. 

"I know this seems like a wild goose chase," Scully said, and for the first time today, something like a smile actually graced her face. "But when you've worked with Mulder for as long as I have, you get to know that it's when he most seems to be out on a limb that he's about to pick up the trail." 

"I understand," Monica said. "I get these feelings. About things, you know. And this doesn't feel like a dead end to me at all. 

Monica paused to look at the house, its windows shiny in the rain, its porch cluttered here or there with evidence of young boys in the family, and she said, "I don't know how, but this ties into it all somehow. You look exhausted. Did you know that? Did you want to nap in the car while I went in? I know it's not exactly procedure, but I'm sure it'll be just another round of routine questions." 

"I....yes, I suppose," Scully said. "I've hardly gotten more than ten hours sleep total in the last seventy-two hours." 

So Monica got out of the car and started up the long driveway. The rain continued, but as she walked, the clouds broke and sunlight streamed in sudden brilliant spears. She turned around to see the expected band of the spectrum arching in a sky that was as blue as John's eyes. The windows of the house turned to gold and it was almost achingly beautiful. 

She forced herself not to attribute anything to this. Her grandmother was a superstitious woman, always finding omens in everything. You dropped a fork and that meant company was coming to call. You spilled salt in Abuelita's house and by God you had better throw some over your shoulder immediately and say a prayer, else misfortune fall on the whole house. An omen would have been found in the rainbow to be sure. But her "feelings" aside, Monica was a trained investigator, and for all that John complained that she read the tea leaves to solve crimes, she damn well knew that it was the chain of evidence that bought the convictions. 

Monica turned back to the house and made her way up to the front door. A moment after she rang the bell, the door swung open and a big, tall man stood in the doorway. She remembered Mulder's physical profile- this was a large man, over two hundred pounds, and this guy was at least a big, blocky two hundred. Large feet, and therefore probably tall, and this guy was over six feet, more than enough to support his size thirteen feet. Otherwise her first impression was blandly pleasant, probably dull at parties, possibly the kind of guy who's already made his first million working for himself in the building trades. He had pale brown hair that wasn't so much turning gray as just fading to colorless and eyes that she couldn't see the color of set in a face that was leathery. Not so much tanned now, but as if he'd spent a number of years working out in the sun. 

"Gary Franklin?" she asked. He nodded, looking confused like most people were to see her at their front door. "I'm Monica Reyes, with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few questions if I could." 

She displayed her badge, holding it up long enough for him to see, not just flashing it briefly like her colleagues did too often. She smiled a little, hoping that he might be distracted by the fact that she was a pretty girl, which might avoid some of the usual clamping up that affected people when faced with a government agent. Perhaps not the most ethical use of her looks, but whatever it took. 

"What's this about?" he asked. 

"I was just hoping you might be able to shed a little light on an investigation of mine," she said, smiling some more, deliberately trying to put him at ease. "It'll just take a moment of your time." 

"Uh, sure," he said. "Come in." 

He led her to the back of the house, to a bright kitchen with a family room off it. If the house itself was sheer perfection with the surface of each piece of cherry furniture polished to a mirror shine, then the family room was where it was allowed to fall apart. A massive big screen television dominated one half the room, with a couple of well loved recliners lined up in worship to it. 

Franklin showed her to the table, pulling out a chair for her. Then he took the seat opposite from her. "Now, what sort of questions did you have for me?" he asked. Like most people when confronted with the law, he seemed suspicious and wary, but he was not, to Monica's senses, hiding anything. 

"I wondered if you remembered anything about a traffic accident in front of the VA hospital you were discharged from a few years ago," she said. 

"Sure," he said. He got a slight smile even. "That's how I met my wife. I pulled her out of the cars path just before it jumped the curb. Best thing that ever happened to me. She'd been there visiting her father. I never thought I'd have a family but she came equipped with two boys, Mark and Adam, so I got my family ready made. It was like a wish come true." 

He seemed to grow warmer and more voluble as he talked about his family. This did not seem like a man infected with the stain of evil to Monica, and yet some feeling nagged at the back of her head that this was all connected somehow. 

"Could I ask what you were admitted to the hospital for?" Monica asked. She actually knew exactly what had landed him there, but she wanted to gauge his reactions on that topic. 

"I had some, uh, I guess you'd call them irregularities. Of my sexual organs. They cured me of that while I was in 'Nam. Took 'em out in an operation. But they'd left parts in by mistake and they turned cancerous on me. Surgery and chemo cured me. Cancer free for three years now." 

She thought of her own scare a while back, the one that had finally made her quit cigarettes for good- her sore throat that just wouldn't go away, not for weeks or a month, that in the dark hours of the night she had grown convinced was throat cancer, and had gotten, against all better judgment, so scared she'd had to be dragged to the doctor. It had just been strep throat, and cured by simple antibiotics. But she'd thrown out her cigarettes that day, vowing never to live in that kind of fear again. Ironically, thinking of that fear made her crave a smoke even more. 

Franklin didn't seem like he was caught up in his missing sexual organs, not mourning them. He continued, "There was some lawyers tried to tell me I should sue the military doctors for what happened to me, but I always figured that was just the lawyers looking for a way to make any easy buck. 'Scuse me, I should take this call. Probably work. My back is acting up again, so I can't go out to the site, but I try to do what I can from home." 

His phone had started ringing and Monica watched with interest as he took the call and walked into the family room to talk. 

"Yeah?" he said, then listened intensely for a moment. "No, it's not a good time. I have someone over. Look, I told you, I can't do this anymore. I've more than paid you. You stay away from here." 

He listened to his caller for a while and said finally, in a strained agitation, "I'll come to you later. I told you, I have someone here." 

He finally hung up and came back to talk to her. "Where were we?" he asked. "Oh, yeah, lawyers wanting to make any easy buck off me." 

"Everything okay?" she asked. "You seem kind of upset about the call." 

"Just an old Marine buddy. He was in my unit, that makes bonds like family, y'know. He saved my life. Before I wised up, I'd give him money. I think he used it for drugs, maybe gambling. I don't know. I'm trying to learn not to throw good money after bad anymore." 

"It's hard to learn to say no," she said. 

He was lying to her. Or at least part of that statement was a lie, part the truth. Only she couldn't tell exactly which was which. Maybe just that he was no longer giving the guy money. But here was the crack in this foundation of truth. And as with all things, even the smallest crack could bring down a mighty fortress. 

* * *

About twenty minutes later, Dennis showed up at the basement office in the company of none other than AD Skinner himself. They were talking jovially about some other guy they both seemed to know who worked in ATF, at least that's what Doggett heard as their approaching noises drifted in from the hallway. 

When Skinner walked in, he was smiling even. He liked Dennis apparently. Actually, from a glance the two of them shared, Doggett wondered just how well the two of them knew each other. There was something more there than just friendship, some potent something. 

"Agent Doggett? Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked. "I thought I'd bring Agent Carville down." 

"Sir," Mulder said. Doggett was almost surprised. He would have thought what with some of the talk going around about how rebellious and anti-authority Mulder was that sir wouldn't have been in his vocabulary. 

"Thank you for meeting Agent Carville," Mulder said. And he got out of his seat, nodded his hellos to Dennis and actually shook the man's hand, then said, "Thank you for coming." 

Then there wasn't anything for it, but Doggett had to stand and face Dennis. It wasn't so much that there was any hatred there. Doggett was too big a boy for that. It hadn't worked out. He wasn't going to be like some high school girl whose life was over because the quarterback of the football team had dumped her. He was over Dennis. And yet.... 

"Let's get this over with," he said. Mulder had already turned towards AD Skinner and seemed to be in the start of some conversation. Doggett wondered just how close Mulder was to the AD. Rumor had it that the man had pulled Mulder's ass out of the fire many time, more times than could be accounted for by simple loyalty and on occasions where maybe it shouldn't have been pulled. Jealousy flared irrationally as Doggett thought about the intense way Mulder and Skinner were talking, standing close to each other, as he and Dennis walked away. 

Dennis' car was parked in the visitors section of the garage. It was still the same crappy little gas electric hybrid he'd been driving when he'd dated Doggett. 

Doggett folded himself into the little car. It felt like his knees were pressing straight into his belly, and Dennis' shoulders right into his. No, not really, but it was an uncomfortably small choice of cars for such a big man. He'd often wondered why a man who could clearly afford a bigger, better car would choose this. He'd never said for before, for fear of offending Dennis, but as there wasn't anything to lose now, he said so. 

"John," Dennis said. He wasn't offended, and he seemed used to explaining it. "You know that because of my work, I know where terrorist's money comes from." 

"So?" 

"If you use oil, then some of it probably comes from you," Dennis said. "Obviously it's filtered through various corporations, Arab families and all of that. But that's where some of the oil money goes. I've just made a choice to minimize my oil use." 

"And ride around like a sardine in a can," Doggett said. 

"I have some things I just can't compromise on. I..." Dennis said, pausing a long time as if gathering his thoughts. They must have ridden through the broad avenues of the downtown for nearly five minutes before Dennis spoke again. "I know what I did must have seemed tremendously unfair. You see yourself as a man, and truthfully, you're one of the most masculine...people I know. But I'll be blunt here John, you look like a duck, you quack like a duck, but my dick knows incontrovertibly that you aren't a duck. And I can only control my dick to a certain extent." 

"Damn it, Dennis," Doggett said. Hearing this again wasn't exactly the tonic that Doggett needed. "You don't exactly need to rub it in, that you and half of America doesn't think I'm a man any more. You know, I spent my whole life as a man. Until a few years ago, there was nothing anyone could see that showed I was any different. Just because of some accident of genetics doesn't mean I stop being a man." 

"Like I said, you're one of the most masculine people I know. And I could go on to myself that being a man is far more a social construct than anything else. But my dick doesn't think in terms of social constructs. I'm sorry," Dennis said. "I truly am. If it makes you feel better, I've had to reevaluate myself. I've never thought of myself as a shallow person before. I'm not one of those men who take out a personal ad saying no fats no fems. But I just can't get over it, John, even though a big part of what's up here in my head wishes I could. I'm truly sorry for that." 

"I guess that there's not really much more to say on the matter, is there?" John said. Actually, they'd gone through a variation of this same talk before, and though Dennis seemed more contrite this time around, he hadn't really made any progress in understanding the issue. At least not as far as Doggett was concerned. 

He wasn't a man still because of social constructs, whatever the hell was meant by that, but because he'd always been a man. Because to him, being a man had nothing to do with anatomy, nor place in society or even genetics. It was about who he was. About what he did. How he felt. He was willing to concede the point that maybe, just maybe you couldn't consider him fully male any longer, but by God, with J. Edgar Hoover as witness, he was a man. 

"I wish there were something I could do to make it up to you," Dennis said. "I wish things could be different." 

"You don't need to make anything up," Doggett said. "And things are the way they are. That's life. I make your dick limp, so what? Get over it and quit wringing your hands about it." 

Dennis laughed, a big sound that boomed all over the tiny car. "That's what I always liked best about you. You take no prisoners. It's a good thing your Mulder looks like a man who loves a challenge, because I'm sure you'll be one." 

"He's not my Mulder," Doggett said, firmly, even though he liked the sound of that. 

"Yet," Dennis said. 

* * *

She left the house a short time later. Scully was still sleeping in the front seat of the Bucar, her legs curled up under, her trench coat pulled around her like a blanket, her head lolling against her shoulder, red hair in disarray. She seemed fragile in rest, vulnerable as a flower with boot heels nearby. Monica suddenly felt irresponsible for leaving her there to sleep alone in the car. 

Scully startled awake as Monica opened the car door. "How'd it go?" Scully said. 

Monica slipped into her seat behind the drivers wheel and pulled her seatbelt on. 

"He's hiding something," Monica said as she pulled the car out into the street. "I don't think he's our man, but something just seems odd about him. I think he's going to meet someone later. Someone he didn't want to talk to in front of me. I want to follow him there." 

Monica turned around in the cul-de-sac's circle, then drove out to the feeder road and found an inconspicuous place to park there. The subdivision only had the one main entrance, so he'd have to drive past them no matter which way he went. 

Scully, meanwhile, had decided to call Agent Mulder with an update. 

"Mulder, it's me," she said into the phone. "We interviewed George Halliburton, Mark McDonal, Charles Burton and Gary Franklin. Mostly nothing, but Agent Reyes thinks that Franklin might be hiding something. It sounds like he's going to meet someone and we're going to follow him there." 

She paused a moment and said, "Yes, I said Franklin." 

Listening a while longer, with intent concentration she ended with, "Okay, we'll do that." 

Scully hung up, slipped her phone back into the pocket of her trench coat and said to Monica, "Mulder has what he believes to be a most likely suspect, the one that fits his profile the most closely. One August Klassen." 

"So, should we give this up and go question him?" Monica said, even as the thought rubbed against her like running your fingers upwards from tail to nose in cat's fur. She'd caught the scent of something here and she had to trace the trail to its end. "Is that our priority?" 

"No," Scully said. "We can't. He has no last known address. It's not sure whether he's homeless or he's just been living under assumed names. But other than a few medical treatments for continuing complications of his radical hysterectomy, he's like a man that doesn't exist. He surfaces just long enough to get those treatments then disappears again. But Mulder thinks it's possible he might have a link to some people he trusts. Maybe people from his old unit. Possibly Gary Franklin." 

"So, we follow Gary Franklin," Monica said. 

"Yes," Scully said. "Just follow him. Mulder says that we should make no attempt to make contact with the unsub without backup. He should be considered armed and extremely dangerous." 

* * *

Somehow, after that, it'd gotten easier to talk to Dennis. As if something that had been hovering between them had been laid to rest and now they were free to be the kind of friends that they probably should have stayed in the first place. 

"So, you were getting kind of friendly with AD Skinner there. He's not..." Doggett asked. 

"No, unfortunately, not so far as I can tell," Dennis said, ruefully. "At least he's never given me any clue. We met working organized crime. I was tracing money laundering. He was undercover, all part of the same operation. We were close for a while, even boxed at the same gym, but then sort of drifted apart." 

"Too bad," Doggett said. "I wouldn't throw him out of my bed for eating crackers." 

"And how," Dennis said. 

Finally they pulled up to the Gunmen's warehouse again. It didn't seem any friendlier a neighborhood in the red light of sunset. Dennis looked doubtfully around the vicinity and asked, "Are you sure you don't want to spend the night at my place instead?" 

"Sure about it," Doggett said. "These guys are a little bit unconventional, but they're okay guys." 

Dennis had to lend him a hand in order for him to get out of the tiny car, something Doggett wasn't used to, but he figured soon enough he'd have to be used to it, so he swallowed down the humiliation and took the help. Dennis stayed right at his elbow for the whole, all of twenty yards trip to the metal door of the warehouse. 

Frohike answered the door again, saying, "The household is in full swing. Just to warn you." 

The heavy metal door swung open all the way as Frohike stepped aside to let them in. The sounds of a full scale screech of delight drifted upwards along with assorted collateral noise. 

"Are you sure you don't want to stay with me instead?" Dennis asked. "One last offer before I go." 

"I'll be fine here," Doggett said. From the sound of it, the noise had already settled down to what might be described as a normal boyish boisterousness. 

"I'll get the troops to keep it down to a dull roar," Frohike said. "And they'll be hitting the books again soon." 

So Dennis left him at the Gunmen's door only somewhat reluctantly, adding, "Call if you need anything at all. I mean it, John." 

"Of course you do, Dennis," Doggett said. Then Dennis climbed into his ridiculous little car and drove away. Frohike led the way down the gloomy steps. 

Last time, the place had seemed more like a lair, a cave plunged in darkness, with just enough task lighting so that one didn't trip over your own feet. This afternoon, the warehouse had been lit up with row after row of track lighting, making the basement space into a surprisingly bright place, especially the kid's play area, which now seemed like a cheerful hybrid between a mad scientist's lab and an explosion at the erector set factory. 

The younger of the two boys Doggett had seen only briefly yesterday morning was riding a tricycle around the perimeter of the space, laughing as he pedaled like a little speed demon. He must have been the source of the earlier screech. He had long hair and thick rimmed glasses, just like his father Langly. Otherwise though, he was the spitting image of the man who was watching the scene with happy tolerance, not far away, the kid's other father, John Byers. 

The other boy was even more the spitting image of Byers. Not only did he had the same coloring and features, but he'd adapted the suit and tie costume that Byers wore. Suit and tie? On a kid? A kid that was playing? Well, Doggett supposed you could call it playing. The kid, who must have been all of eight, was very carefully reassembling a VCR under the direction of a very pregnant Ringo Langly, though mostly Langly just watched and nodded. 

The third child of the household was wandering into the room carrying an empty coffee pot, still dressed in a flowery, pink robe, which the sole sign of feminity that Doggett had ever seen in the place. 

"Uncle Frohike," the girl said queruelously. "You drank the last of the coffee." 

"You shouldn't be drinking it anyway, Caroline," Frohike said. "It'll stunt your growth." 

"That's just an old wive's tale," she countered. 

"No, it's utterly true," Frohike said, his voice a perfect deadpan. "Look at me. I know from experience." 

"Uncle Frohike, just last month you said that you'd come from a famous line of Albanian circus midgets and you'd been shunned because you got too tall to perform," Caroline said. She held the coffee pot out to him pointedly and when he didn't take it, she stormed off back in what was probably the direction of the kitchen. 

"I didn't think she'd believe the thing about the circus midgets," Frohike said to no one in particular. 

"It's probably no worse for her than Coke, Frohike," Langly said, without looking up from the project his oldest son was engaged in. 

"You spoil that girl, Langly," Frohike said. 

"As if you don't," Langly countered. 

"Anyway, I should be settling Agent Doggett here down," Frohike said. "You think you can keep it down to a dull roar in here?" 

"Ringo or I can show him to the guest room, Frohike," Byers said. He was a soft spoken man, with a very mild manner that seemed to belie some inner fire and passion that was kept very carefully leashed. As if what Doggett was seeing was the Clark Kent of a super crusader of a very different kind. 

Instead of Byers rising from his chair, Langly did, surprisingly limber for a man so pregnant. Doggett followed Langly away from the play room, work room area back down the long hallway. 

"This is your first, right?" Langly asked as they walked. Well, Langly was so far gone that his gait was really closer to a waddle. 

"Yeah," Doggett said. "Almost certainly only too. You've done this not just once, but you liked it well enough to do it four times?" 

"Nah," Langly said, opening the door to the room that Doggett was already starting to think of as 'his'. "I hate being pregnant. I love babies though. You know, it's not as scary as you're probably thinking it is. Trust me, by the time you're holding them in your arms, you've forgotten everything that went before. It's more worth it than you can imagine. And you've got a ton more going for you than I did when I had my first." 

"How do you figure?" Doggett asked as he lowered himself onto the bed and started toeing off his shoes and loosening his tie at the same time. 

If anything, Langly should have had the advantage of youth, even going on his fourth, he was still years younger than Doggett would be when his first was born. 

"I was just barely twenty, trying to put myself through college and run a small business and party as hard as I could when I got pregnant the first time. Just like you, the other father wasn't involved, but in my case the jerk couldn't be counted on to just fade back into the woodwork. He kind of freaked out and threatened me when I wouldn't have an abortion. Because I didn't have money or insurance, I didn't have any prenatal care to speak of. I went into early labor and I didn't know what the hell was going on. Caroline was born a whole month and a half early and spent the first weeks of her life in neonatal icu. Both of us nearly died because I was so young and clueless." 

"Looks like you've come a long way since then," Doggett said. It might not have been the most traditional of locations, but the warehouse was starting to grow on him as a surprisingly cozy home. And he had two other men who obviously each cared for the kids as if they'd given birth to them themselves. 

"Yeah, but it's been a struggle at times," Langly said. "I'm going to let you sleep. You must be exhausted. I know I am." 

Then Langly left him alone in the small guest room. Without the lights on, only a small rectangle of gray light broken into smaller rectangles by iron bars illuminated the room softly and even that was fading quickly as the afternoon stretched into evening. The rain had started again, drumming softly against the window with a regular patter like hundreds of fingertips tapping the glass. 

Further off, he could hear Langly's family, talking, laughing, living. Those comfortable sounds lulled him into a light sleep. 

* * *

"I think he knows we're following him," Monica said, as she watched the SUV that Franklin drove weave into and out of early evening DC traffic. The cars were just the usual kind of thick, and slow moving obstacles that they normally were at this time, but never before had Monica been so frustrated by them. And Franklin seemed to find openings just barely big enough for his vehicle and slither through them, leaving Monica behind. She thought she'd done the best job she could, staying behind and out of sight, but he must have known somehow. 

But she doggedly kept up with him, banging her fist on the wheel in frustration every now and then. A few minutes later and with a curve in the expressway, they were suddenly driving into the brilliant orange glare of the setting sun. Big rents in the cloud cover allowed the light to steal in just long enough to almost blind her. This coincided with a sudden clearing of traffic, so that everyone around her was suddenly accelerating, jockeying for better lane position. While Monica was distracted, just trying to concentrate on staying out of others cars ways, Franklin suddenly crossed two lanes of traffic, just barely missing getting raked by two other vehicles, then exited the expressway. Monica shot on ahead, unable to do anything but curse silently as she drove ahead. The next exit wasn't for another couple of miles and there wasn't anything she could do. 

Monica pulled over to the rightmost lane and exited the freeway as soon as she could. Maybe, just maybe, she could double back to the road Franklin had exited on and catch some sign of him that way. 

* * *

An objective viewer watching Mulder would have seen him appear to stare with blank eyes at the spread of pictures of his desk, seeming not to see anything, hardly moving, as if in some kind of stupor. 

He was scanning the crime scene photos again, trying to pull any kind of signature, any kind of key to identifying the killer. This guy just didn't seem to leave any of the usual ritualistic elements or outward signs of dramatic re-enactment of an inward trauma. The distinguishing feature of the killings seemed to be how cleanly he got away. 

As for the small tokens he took, they seemed related almost always to the man's career. From the police officer, the only thing missing from the scene was the man's service weapon. From Brian Julius, a computer programmer, an expensive laptop computer had been stolen. Mulder slowly pulled a file over and scanned the contents yet again. Yes, August Klassen had been given a medical discharge not long after his surgery. He hadn't been drafted for Vietnam, but had been a volunteer. So, in short order, he'd lost a fetus, a significant portion of his anatomy and his career. That was the set-up, Mulder thought, the weakening, that must have allowed the evil that had existed in Bob Harvey to infect Klassen. All they had to do now was find Klassen. 

He was startled by the phone ringing. 

"Mulder, It's Scully," said the long familiar voice. 

"Yeah," he said, coming to himself again. "Where'd Franklin go?" 

"We're not sure," Scully said. "He slipped away from us on the expressway. We're doubling back now, hoping we can catch sight of him just off the exit he took." 

Mulder cursed inwardly. This very well might have been their best chance, possibly, to track Klassen down. 

"Agent Reyes thinks Franklin knew he was being followed," Scully added. 

"I wouldn't be surprised," Mulder said. "There's a big hole in his service record. Same with Klassen. Looks to me like these guys weren't just special forces, but something very classified, very secret. Look, if you do track him down and you catch sight of Klassen, whatever you do, do not approach him. Call for backup immediately." 

"I understand, Mulder," Scully said. "I'll call you with any developments." 

Mulder hung up the phone reluctantly, certain to his bones that Agent Reyes and Scully were heading into a situation that they wouldn't be able to handle. 

Scully had been his anchor, his truth, for so long it felt like if you were to cut her, he would bleed. But somehow, that intimacy, that love, had never burst into passion. It had felt like for so long that she was almost his sister or something, he another older brother to her. But there were times when he could tell that she was aching to have him and that hurt him, to know that he could never be the type of man that she needed him to be. 

Mulder had never thought of himself as so much gay as just an equal opportunity loser at dating. He'd just never met anyone who he'd thought would understand the work who had also inspired even the stirrings of passion in him. John, on the other hand, seemed like he would understand the work, Mulder seeing the stirrings of obsession in the other man too, and there could be no denying the spark that seemed to be ready to be fanned into a flame. He just prayed that Scully could accept it when he made his move on John. He would, he decided, just as soon as this monster had been caught. 

* * *

Doggett woke groggy and slightly disoriented several hours later. It took him a good several seconds of lying in a strange bed before he remembered just exactly where he was. He was so out of it that he didn't notice the tubby man in plaid sitting at the end of the bed at first. 

"Oh," Doggett groaned as he pulled the blankets over his head. They smelled strange to him, of an unfamiliar detergent, so he pushed them off again. "It's you. Not now. It's not a good time." 

"So, I take it you haven't been thinking about what your third wish will be?" 

"You know, I mighta had some time to do that if there weren't a serial killer out there after me and my baby." 

"I could make him vanish," Gene said. "A snap of the fingers, he could have never existed." 

"No, I don't think so," Doggett said. He was sure that Mulder was steps away from catching the guy. He'd trust Mulder. It wasn't worth wasting a wish over. Not when it could be used for something so much more important. 

"Of course, the best way to make this guy not be a homicidal lunatic would be to turn history back to the way it was. He never got a forced hysterectomy, no serial killer. Of course that means, you never got pregnant," Gene said. 

"Get out of here," Doggett said, curling protectively around his belly. 

"As you wish," Gene said. He vanished in an overly dramatic puff of smoke. Literally. He took a big draw on a cigar that seemed to magically appear in his mouth, blew out a cloud of odiferous smoke that expanded to hide his whole, not unimpressive bulk, then, when the cloud dissipated, Gene was gone. 

Doggett pulled the pillow back over his head, but failed to fall back asleep. Eventually, he rolled out of bed. He tried to put his shoes back on, but failed. His feet had swollen some today. No wonder it had felt like heaven to get them off earlier. He left the shoes behind, deliberately pushing the warning bells going off out of mind. He left his jacket off, but just for his own piece of mind, he strapped his holstered gun back onto his belt, hoping that Mulder's friends wouldn't take it the wrong way. 

He wandered out into the main living area just in time to witness an argument between the teenager and Langly. 

Langly was on the phone and it seemed like he was talking with someone he didn't want to be talking with. His lip curled a little and his eyes rolled as he listened. And then he said to Caroline, "Your other father wants to talk to you." 

"He's not my father," she said, with the utter disdain that only a teenager can convey by only the merest twist of their lips. "He's a sperm donor." 

"Caroline," Byers said sharply, but softly, definitely meant in the way of a reprimand. "Talk to your father." 

"When the Elrond the Elfboy grows up enough to pay off some of the child support he owes you and Dad, then we'll talk about me talking to him," Caroline snapped. 

"Hold on just a minute," Langly said to the person on the other end of the line. He put the phone down and turned to Caroline, full of perfect fury. "What your other father does or does not owe is a matter of concern to your father and me. So you will zip up that snotty attitude of yours and talk to him or else!" 

"Why should I?" she demanded, the universal question of teenagers everywhere. 

"Because I'm your dad and I said so," Langly said. "Now talk to him." 

"No!" she all but screeched. Then she ran, stormed out of the room. 

She not only had a slight head start, but she was fleeter of foot than anyone in the room. She was also closest in position to the stairs to the outside. She had all the deadbolts thrown back and was out the door before anyone else was even midway up the steps. By the time Doggett had made up to the top of the steps, she was already hidden in the darkness. By the sounds of footsteps, she was running down the street but he couldn't see her. Frohike, who'd been the first up the stairs after her was running as well, calling out her name frantically. 

"You and Agent Doggett should stay indoors with the doors locked," Byers was saying to Langly. "We'll find her. She's not going to get far." 

* * *

They'd quartered the neighborhood that she'd thought Franklin had gotten off at for hours, spreading out into the streets beyond with having seen no sign of him, nor having felt anything the set off her "feelings" or any clue, any hint. 

"It's a cold trail," Monica finally admitted. 

Scully had taken to dozing in the car seat as Monica drove. She startled awake and sat up straight at Monica's frustrated pronouncement. "We should call in to Mulder and see what he wants us to do." 

"We should call it a night," Monica said. "Neither of us is going to be much good at this point. You especially. You're running on empty." 

Monica's phone rang. Mulder was on the other end of the line. 

"Is Agent Scully there with you?" he asked anxiously. "I couldn't reach her." 

"Yeah, she's right here," Monica said. "She has been the whole evening. Dana, it's Agent Mulder. He's been worried he couldn't reach you." 

With that, Scully drew her cell phone out of her pocket and checked it quickly. "It's dead," she said. "I haven't been in one place long enough to charge it, I suppose." 

"Her phone's just dead, Agent Mulder," Monica said. "What did you need?" 

"Well, our problems finding Franklin are over," Mulder said, ominously calm and deadpan. It sounded like they were over in not so good a way. 

"Where did they find him?" Monica asked, in dread anticipation. 

"His car was found illegally parked downtown, not far from the Mall," Mulder said. "He was found sitting in the drivers seat, throat slashed. He didn't seem to have struggled, as if it was done by someone he knew. The city cops called me because the MO is exactly like all the other killings except for he wasn't pregnant." 

Monica felt lightheaded and as if an anvil had sunk to the bottom of her stomach. She felt like she might faint, and it wasn't just from low bloodsugar because she hadn't eaten since lunch, eight hours ago. She felt, almost, like evil was reaching out to touch her, stroke her gently around the base of her neck. 

"Oh, God," she said. "He was killed because the unsub was afraid Franklin would lead us right to him." 

"Maybe not," Mulder said. "Maybe it was a disagreement of some other kind. I don't think we'll ever know. But this makes it more important than ever that we catch up to this son of a bitch. Look, you two really ought to get off the streets for now. I'm going off the assumption that he's homeless at least part of the time. I've got teams canvassing the shelters with a time progressed photo. I'm hoping we can pull up a few leads that way. A witness says he thought he saw a sandy haired man get out of the vehicle earlier and Klassen is described as having sandy hair." 

Monica thought for some reason again of her grandmother. Of the endless strings of prayers she would weave together at any trouble. How she would probably have said, at a time like this, "Mother of God and all the Saints preserve us!" Monica was not a superstitious person nor particularly religious in the usual sense, but she wished right now that she could say those prayers and believe those things, because that was the only effective protection she knew against such evil. 

* * *

Before they could turn around and head into the building, Doggett heard something, a slight scuffle of feet, something that sounded like the muffled sound of someone yelling with a hand clamped over their mouth. He instinctively reached for his weapon and drew it even though he could see no immediate threat. Byers and Frohike hadn't gotten more than a couple of steps away, but they stopped in their tracks. 

Then the guy stepped out of the shadows. He was huge, seeming especially so compared to slight, blond Caroline, held easily in place despite her struggles by one arm, with a vicious looking knife against her throat in his other hand. In the yellow pools of the overhead streetlights, the knife's long blade flashed. He managed to stop at the edge of one of the circles of light, so that Caroline was visible, his own features mostly obscured in shadow, so much so that Doggett could hardly have said what the guy looked like. 

"You looking for this?" he asked. "I'd suggest the girlie better stop struggling soon, cause I wouldn't want her to get hurt." 

"Let her go or I will be compelled to use force," Doggett said. He held his weapon solidly aimed at the guy's head, the closest thing he had to a clear shot. He hoped. 

"What do you want?" Langly asked, his voice rising in panic. Doggett understood. With some situations, panic just might be the only understandable response. 

"Him," the man said, pointing at Doggett with a jerk of the head. "You drop the gun then you and me take a walk down these lonely streets, John, and I let the girl go. It's that simple. It's time for you to meet your fate. You know who I am." 

If it had been just him, if he hadn't been carrying a child, he might have done it. He might have put the gun down and gone with the guy, taken his chances. If it would keep the daughter of his new found friends safe, he wouldn't have had any option. But he had another life to think about as well. He hesitated, his gun not wavering. He made no motion to lower his weapon even as the guy grabbed a big handful of Caroline's hair in his thick, rough hand and pulled her head upwards to reveal even more of her pale throat. The guy's hands were dirty, Doggett thought. Dirt, or maybe something else that he couldn't think about right now, was caked under the nails and around the nailbeds. 

Afterwards, Doggett wasn't sure if he was glad or not that Caroline refused to stay still despite the cold steel against her throat. He'd get sick just thinking about what could have possibly happened. At the instant of its happening though, there was no hesitation. 

Caroline had been kicking and struggling all along, but she actually managed to land a blow to the man's kneecap. For just a moment, just long enough, the guy reacted. The knife slipped away from her throat, no longer in direct contact. And Doggett had a clear shot. He didn't care if it wasn't by the book. Some might have said it was endangering a hostage, but not taking a risk was sure to endanger her even worse. He was doing what he should have done to protect Luke, what he would have done without question, had he been there. 

Time seemed to dilate, slowing down so that each instant seemed to take a lifetime. He didn't feel anything. He just acted. He just did what he had to do at the moment it was meant to be done. 

He aimed. Carefully. 

There was no room for error, nor any time to see that he wasn't making one. He just had to let his body do what it knew how to do, slip into that state where the weapon was an extension of himself. Even before he pulled the trigger, he was certain that the bullet would reach his target. 

He curled his finger, pulled the trigger back and it seemed like fire and cataclysm burst from the gun. The man flew back as red fountained from his forehead. The knife flew out of his hand, arcing through the air and falling to the pavement with a silvery sound. Only then was the brief silence afterwards broken with a scream. 

The scream seemed to signal an end to the dilation of time. Things moved forward at regular speed again. The man had fallen backwards to the pavement, still, the only movement the flow of red, copious streams of it, ruby puddles of it already. Caroline had fallen to her knees not far away. She was the one screaming, wordlessly, just hysterical terror. And she was bloody too, red trails dripping down her cheek, onto her neck. 

"Caroline!" Doggett stuck his gun in his holster and scurried for her as fast as he could. 

She had her hand clamped to her face at the site of the wound and he couldn't see it, how serious it was, but there was lots of blood. The bastard had cut her afterall. That knife was huge, probably super sharp too. God knew how much damage it could do to the delicate skin and muscles of a face. 

"You're going to be okay. It's over. Let me see, Caroline," he said, trying to peel the young girl's hand away from her face. A near hysterical strength kept it pressed where it was. Not that he could have really seen it well in the just the yellow glare of the streetlights. Frohike was at his side now, hovering and talking low and calm to the girl to no great effect. He too, failed to get her to let him see the extent of her injuries. 

Her screaming had died down but she was sobbing now, still not in control of herself. "We should get her inside," Doggett said. Then without thinking about whether he should or not, whether it might not be bad for the baby's health for him to exert himself, he scooped her up into his arms and started carrying her back down into the warehouse without any further thought about the man he'd just killed. 

* * *

It was always the phone disrupting him when he was just getting somewhere, Mulder thought as he answered its intrusion. 

"Mulder." 

It was Frohike. "You'd better get here now," Frohike said, solemnly, it that utter seriousness of tone, stripped of any humor, that Mulder knew meant that serious shit was going down. 

"What's happening?" Mulder asked. 

"Just get here. Now," Frohike said. 

"I'm on my way," Mulder said. He was already grabbing his coat. "But what's happening, Frohike? Frohike?" 

It was no good. Frohike had hung up already. Mulder hurried to the garage, imagining the worst, fearing it like any nightmare. Wondering what could have happened, if Klassen could have gotten to John somehow. Or Langly even. He drove like a demon all the way to Maryland, not even slowing down when he called Agent Reyes to tell her to meet him there and to bring Scully. 

When he arrived, a whole fleet of squad cars greeted him, transforming the grubby but comfortably familiar industrial neighborhood into a strange realm with the strobing of the red and blue squad car lights. The boxy white form of an ambulance was there as well. Just around its corner, he could see the EMTs working on a figure on a stretcher, preparing for transport. A second ambulance was parked next to the first, but Mulder couldn't see what was going on there. It could be anything or nothing. 

Mulder approached the police line, his badge at ready. The cop looked at the badge and motioned him past. He practically ran to where the EMTs were now loading the gurney into the back of the first ambulance. 

Even with the low light, with a face obscuring oxygen mask in place, Mulder could tell that the face looking back at him with glazed, unfocused eyes did not belong to John or to anyone else he loved. No, the face was familiar, but only because he'd been staring at a photograph of the man who owned it for hours. It was August Klassen. 

"I'm a federal agent," he called at to the EMTs. "This man is a suspect in multiple murder cases. What's his condition." 

The EMTs waited until the gurney was firmly seated in the equipment festooned back of the ambulance before answering. Only after hanging the IV did one of them say, "It doesn't look good, Agent. You want any chance of this guy being alive to answer questions, you'd better let us get him to the hospital." 

So Mulder backed away and let the EMTs get on with their business. A short time later, it rolled away, a squad car following it. Somehow, the possibility that John might be being loaded into the second ambulance was of far greater importance than the chance that the suspect might die. Let him. It'd save the taxpayers the expense of the electricity to fry the bastard like he deserved. 

Mulder ran to the second ambulance to find two of the Gunmen clustered together, hovering over Caroline- Frohike and Byers. Caroline was being attended to by the EMTs and she had a big gauze pad taped to her cheek already. A small ruby red stain had leaked through to the top layer of the pad. 

"What happened? Where's Langly?" Mulder asked. 

"You know how he is about blood," Frohike said. "He's inside with the boys. And with Agent Doggett. You'd better get in there." 

"What happened?" Mulder said, feeling lost, uncertain about himself now that he seemed to be on the outside and not the center of the events that had happened. 

"That monster got to Caroline," Frohike said. "Took her hostage. Your Agent Doggett shot him. Unfortunately not dead." 

Yes, unfortunately. 

"How did he get to her? I thought I told you to keep things locked up tight?" Mulder demanded. 

"She's a teenager, Mulder," Byers said, as if that explained everything. Then it was time for them to leave, so he climbed into the back of the ambulance with Caroline, leaving Mulder alone with Frohike. 

"She got into a fight with Langly," Frohike said. "She's been in a lousy mood all day and was just itching for one. Probably just adolescence. She stormed out before we could stop her." 

"She'll be okay though, right?" Mulder asked, horrified by the thought that she might not be. He'd been there when she was born. Perhaps no other child belonging to friends had ever made such an impression on him. The guilt that she had been hurt because he'd gotten the Gunmen involved weighed heavily and hard on him. Like someone had dropped a skid of bricks right on top of his head. 

"He cut her cheek, fairly deep. She'll need stitches, maybe plastic surgery to see that it heals without a scar," Frohike said. "But she's not in danger. Let's go in. I think your Agent Doggett needs you." 

* * *

He was sick, just ill at the thought of just what could have happened. It was like an emotional vertigo, like he was going to fall off the step of a ladder of sanity that he was perilously clinging to. One little thought about how if Caroline had moved at the wrong moment, or how if the guy's hand had slipped in the other direction, then he was sliding downwards, or just hanging out over the void, feeling the depth of the tragedy that could have happened, the breadth of just how bad it could have been. 

It might have been emotional vertigo, but his stomach was reacting as if it were real. He'd already thrown up once, after the EMTs had arrived and taken Caroline away to pronounce that she wasn't as badly injured as they'd feared. He'd gone discreetly into the bathroom and lost only liquid, there being nothing much in his stomach to speak of as far as food went. He was still kneeling on the floor by the toilet, certain that if he tried to stand and pretend that everything was normal, that he'd lose control of his stomach again. It was just the sudden fear. Because he was discovering yet again, that he might not have been afraid of anything for himself. But to be afraid for one's child or even another's child is the very worst of terror someone can experience. 

"John!" called a familiar voice across the room. Mulder ran to him and enfolded him in strong arms, pulling him to his feet. 

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked, his voice tight with emotion. Doggett looked at Mulder and saw deep green eyes shining, intense passion and worry. Mulder brushed Doggett's cheek with a hand and added, "There's blood." 

"It's Caroline's," Doggett said. The skin had felt tight and uncomfortable as Mulder brushed it- Caroline's blood drying on his skin. And then he felt that fear again, the gut-clenching realization of just how badly it could have gone wrong. How six inches mattered so much. "She could have died, Mulder. And I would have been responsible." 

And then he couldn't admit any more, couldn't say anything more. He let Mulder hold him and wait patiently for a long time. Doggett couldn't say anything, afraid he'd break down into sobs and it was important for him, at this moment, to keep as much of his dignity as he had left. 

"You did the right thing, John. The only thing you could do. I know you did. Years ago," Mulder said at long last when it was obvious that Doggett wasn't about to talk. "I was in a situation that must have been a little like what you were in. It should have been a smooth bust, but the suspect took his accomplice hostage. I had a clear shot, but I didn't take it because I was playing by the book back then and it would have endangered the hostage. He shot the hostage anyway. And afterwards, he escaped from prison, and he hunted me down, killed a good friend of mine and tried to kill Scully. I should have just taken that shot. I would have saved at least three lives if I had. More maybe. You did the right thing. You saved Caroline's life. He wouldn't have let her, or any of you go. You'd seen him. If you don't believe anything else about this case, believe that, John." 

And Mulder said it with such intensity and integrity that he found he could, found that the band of guilt that was tightening around him was loosening just a little. 

What happened next seemed inevitable. It was something that they had been slowly dancing towards since they'd first laid eyes on each other a few, short days ago. Their eyes drifted until they were staring at each other, Doggett feeling like he was drowning in those almost sea-like eyes. The closing in was almost imperceptible, as if his body was moving on its own, without input from him. And then suddenly, their lips were touching. 

* * *

Kissing John Doggett was like a sweet fire spreading through him, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. It warmed him, set him afire, but did not burn him somehow. Instead, it just demanded every bit of his attention, his consciousness. His whole world for this instant was John. 

Until the door of the bathroom opened and then closed quickly. Mulder was prepared to dive back down again into the sweet consumption of his senses, but John pushed him away. 

"We'd better see what they want," John said. "You shoot a man, even for good reasons, there's questions to answer." 

"You're right," Mulder said. He stepped back from John's arms, reluctant to relinquish the warmth of them, the comfort of strong arms, even the round, firm belly that had been pressed up against him hard. John looked better now, not so pale or shaken as he had been when Mulder first found him. Mulder touched the drying blood on John's face and said, "You should clean up. I'll go see who that was." 

It'd been Frohike. He was waiting in the hallway outside. "The lovely Agent Scully is here," he said. "And the local cops want to talk with Agent Doggett." 

"He'll be out in just a minute," Mulder said. Then, suddenly, the enormity of the step he'd just taken hit him. He'd just stepped out over the void into a vast, new territory that threatened to swallow him whole. Because you could look in John's eyes and know that he would demand nothing from a man except a full, body soul and mind commitment. Everything. It excited and terrified Mulder in equal measure. And it seemed that he would have to make a decision now, before things went any further with John. "What am I doing, Frohike? Falling in love with a man who's already pregnant with another man's child." 

Frohike nodded wisely. He seemed to understand. "Only the most important thing you've ever done," he said, sagely. "Ask Byers. He'll tell you." 

Then Scully was right in front of him saying, "Mulder, AD Skinner is on the line. He hasn't been able to reach you." 

And that started the whole hours and hours of clean up and questions. 

* * *

It was late, well past midnight, by the time the authorities were done with him and Doggett was about ready to fall down. Suddenly Mulder appeared after having been gone for hours. He looked exhausted, the long hours of the case suddenly starting to tell. The five o'clock shadow, at long last, had shaded that strong jawline. But with Mulder, it made him only more inviting somehow. 

"Did you want me to take you home?" he asked. 

"Are we sure we have our unsub?" Doggett asked. "Are we sure this is over?" 

"We won't ever know for certain if we got the man that killed all of those men. August Klassen died in surgery a few hours ago. Preliminary blood tests are making it look like we got the man who killed Peter and Gary Franklin, but we won't know for certain until the full DNA screen is done. But it's over, John. It's over. I'm sure of it down to the bottom of my soul." 

"Then take me home," Doggett said. "But don't leave me alone there." 

They were at the Takoma Park police station, where they'd taken Doggett to make his formal statement. Like everything else Doggett had seen in Takoma Park, the place was weary, run down. The police station had threadbare, stained carpet in the back offices and only marginally better looking furnishings upfront. Thankfully, he was done with the place. Of course, there'd still be the usual Bureau hearing that happened any time an agent killed someone in the line of duty, but he was certain it'd be cursory at best. Time to deal with it later. All he wanted now was to get out of here and to some place where he could continue what he started with Mulder earlier in the night, a kiss that now seemed impossible had ever happened, but that he wanted to try and capture again as soon as possible. 

"No, of course I won't leave you alone," Mulder said. 

Their next kiss happened in a dark corner of the parking lot near Mulder's car. Mulder reached out for him and was suddenly all over him, lips descending with savage demands for not submission but for an equal return of this almost feral passion. And so Doggett struggled to give as well as he was getting. 

At long last, he became cogent of Mulder's hard length pressing against his body, of the delicious pressure of Mulder's hips thrusting against his body. Only then did he become fully aware of the signals his own body was sending, which he'd been more or less ignoring. He was hard, had been for a long time, and he too, as best as he could, was rubbing his hips against Mulder. 

He pushed Mulder away just long enough to say, "Let's get going back to my house." 

"You're right. We don't want to get caught making out in the parking lot of the Takoma Park PD headquarters," Mulder said. Even in the darkness, Doggett could see how Mulder's eyes were wide and shone, now his lips were slightly swollen with all the kissing. 

Helping Doggett into his seat and helping him with the seatbelt seemed to necessitate another bout of kissing. Something nagged at Doggett though. Something he had to tell Mulder before this went any further. 

He pushed Mulder away slightly, just so their mouths were no longer touching, but he could feel Mulder's hot breath on his cheek. 

"I want you bad," Doggett said. "But you gotta know that I can't have intercourse, not til after the baby is born. Doctor said. It never seemed like a big sacrifice until now, but I'm still not going to do anything that would endanger my baby." 

Mulder stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. Then he asked, "Are you saying you can't have orgasms or are you just saying I can't penetrate you vaginally?" 

"The later," Doggett said. It hadn't seemed like an impossible medical prohibition until now, when he finally had someone who he wanted to be fucked by. 

"So, you think if can work around this," Mulder said as he put warm hands on Doggett's belly. His little girl moved around inside him with butterfly kicks in response to the touch. "You could penetrate me? There'd be no medical reason you couldn't." 

Doggett smiled and grew harder at that thought. "I don't know if it'll work," he said. "But we could give it a try." 

An hour later, Doggett found himself lying flat on his back, in bed at home. Mulder was astride Doggett, facing Doggett's feet, slowly lowering himself, opening himself to Doggett. 

It'd been so long since Doggett had felt that kind of tight, smooth enveloping warmth. He grunted involuntarily, then stopped Mulder's descent with his hands on Mulder's hips. He was so afraid he'd lose it right then and there. It would have been better, he thought, if he'd been able to see Mulder's eyes. If he'd been able to look in those liquid pools to steady himself. The view from behind was inspiring to be sure, but the first time, it would have been better to be able to look Mulder in the face. They'd tried and it hadn't quite worked. 

"Not too fast, huh?" Mulder asked. 

"Uh, yeah," Doggett answered, swallowing hard first to even be able to speak. 

"It's okay," Mulder said, ever so slowly moving again. "You don't have to hold back." 

But somehow, he did. Doggett managed to hold back for a few minutes longer. Their coupling was short, sweet with the kind of desperation that comes with the denial of death and sweet because it was their first time. And finally Mulder was shaking and shuddering too, and they were able to share their release from this exquisite tension. 

And strangely, afterwards as they were drifting to sleep, it was Mulder who clung to him as if to a lifeboat in the middle of a wild and lonely sea. 

* * *

Mulder woke in the morning more than a little confused, wondering where he was, feeling disoriented to wake in a strange bed, with someone in the bed with him. He'd spent so long sleeping alone that he could hardly imagine how he'd slept at all. It took him just a moment to remember the sweet lovemaking of the night before. This was John's bed, the heavy form sleeping on its side was John. Yes, and he was pleasantly sore in the best possible way. It was too long since he'd enjoyed that strangely comforting discomfort. 

John didn't seem inclined to even stir, much less waken. Not wanting to disturb him, Mulder slipped out of bed quietly. By the morning light, Mulder found some of his own clothing in the pile on the floor, just a pair of boxers and a shirt. He retreated into the hallway to cover his nakedness though, afraid that he might stumble when pulling on the boxers or something. The bathroom was easy enough to find again and he took care of a few necessities quickly. The disposable blade from the other day was still sitting on the counter, so Mulder used it, scraping his face smooth again. Poor John just might find himself suffering from whisker burn this morning, Mulder thought as he rinsed his face clean. 

After that, he wandered out in the hallway again, not certain of the etiquette of the moment. He wasn't privileged, yet, with making himself free in the house, even though last night had seemed to be just the beginning of many long years together. Who knew? Maybe Mulder was making presumptions based on the intensity of John's feelings last night. For all he knew John might have felt just as intensely about the father of his child, for instance, then sent him on his way after getting quickly bored with him. The threat of death had been known to cause feeling to be exaggerated, and particularly the urge to mate, to deny death by the most intense kind of living- the act that might possibly create new life. 

That was one thing Mulder wasn't sure of- where he would fit into all of this, or even if he dared to. He'd found the thing he'd been looking for all his life- his sister. And yet, the risks had never seemed greater, and he'd never been left with his hands emptier of his proof. Would his presence in John's new little family be nothing but a threat to them? It would probably be better for them if he were just to disappear. 

Thinking of these things, he paced the hallway until he happened to look in on one of the spare bedrooms. It was empty now, when before it had been cluttered with boxes and piles. Perhaps John had chosen it for the nursery and cleared it all away. Mulder looked at the newly empty room, trying to picture a crib there, a rocking chair there, changing table there. Perhaps the currently gloomy medium blue walls painted some cheerful color like yellow. And all he felt was melancholy that his place wasn't here with John and that baby. He was about to turn away from the room, to go back to John's bedroom, gather the rest of his clothes and sneak away in the early dawn. It'd be better for John if it were that way. 

But then John walked up behind him. Mulder's resolve to be gone melted when he felt the firm roundness of John's belly against his back. 

"You're up early," John said. "Come back to bed." 

"Light sleeper," Mulder said. "It looks like you picked a room to be the nursery." 

"It's the wrong color though," John said. "Not that a baby cares. But I can't paint it. The fumes, you know." 

"I could do that for you," Mulder said, before he could stop himself. 

* * *

If the night before had been an island set apart from the nightmares of the days before, then this morning, the illusion of serenity was over. Soon enough, Mulder would be surely leaving, to change and get ready for another day. 

Or maybe not. 

Just as Mulder stirred out of Doggett's embrace and was about to say the expected, that he should get going, he said, "Last night Skinner told me I should take a personal day today. That my preliminary report is good enough for now and the final can wait a day or two. I usually don't bother with down time, but I was thinking about taking it possibly." 

The guy had all but been ordered to take a day off and there was even any question in his mind that he would? 

"What's stopping you?" Doggett asked, trying to remember how many personal days he had left. Before the baby he'd never taken hardly any, but since then, he'd used up so many of them and so many of his sick days. He wanted to take a day, but he wasn't sure he could afford to. Especially because he wanted to take tomorrow off too, so he could go to Peter's funeral. 

"I told you before, John," Mulder said. "For years, nothing has mattered to me besides the work. And now that I'm beginning to emerge and look around, sometimes all I see are the old habits that sustained me for years. In short, I just wouldn't know what to do with myself." 

It was kind of touching, in an odd sort of way, to see how unsure of himself Mulder was. To see that the man wasn't confident enough to assume that he'd just slide right into Doggett's life despite last night. Doggett decided that he'd take the day off and tomorrow too, whether he could afford the days or not. He would have to take this new thing with Mulder slowly and cautiously, not take anything for granted. Despite Mulder's intense passions, he could be, Doggett was now seeing for the first time, shy and awkward. 

"Well, for starters, you could come back to bed," Doggett said. "And then I think there's a can of paint with your name on it waiting at the hardware store." 

Mulder grinned, slightly at first, but then bursting out into a wide smile that could have charmed the pants off of Doggett, if he'd been wearing any. "Oh, yeah, I guess I did offer. I'll just call Scully, though she's probably taking the day off as well." 

"Would you take tomorrow off too?" Doggett asked. "It's Peter's funeral. Would you go with me?" 

"Yes," Mulder said, solemn, slightly hesitant again. "I'm sorry, John. That I didn't find Klassen before he got to Peter. Before he put you in danger. Before you were put in a situation where you had to make a decision like the one you made." 

"You couldn't have known. You did the best you could," Doggett said. "C'mon, let's go back to bed." 

* * *

They didn't even start the painting until after dinner. It hadn't been a simple matter of going to the store and picking out paint, then starting. Mulder only had the work clothes he'd been wearing since the day before- an Italian suit so good Doggett wouldn't have even gone to the parking lot of the hardware store in it. So, they had to stop at Mulder's apartment so he could change. 

As Mulder disappeared to put on old clothes, Doggett looked around the place with interest, taking in the pale creamy walls, the dark furniture. The fish tank. The kid would love a fish tank, Doggett thought absently, what kid wouldn't. He thought cautious yet optimistically about how Mulder's furniture would blend in with his own, what that crazy coat rack with the billiard ball ends would look like by his door. 

Finally, Mulder appeared wearing an old faded red t-shirt, almost pink even and a pair of jeans that hugged his body so tightly it must have been a sin. If it wasn't a sin, then surely it was a shame at least to think about them getting drips of paint on them. 

"Ready," Mulder said. 

They hadn't left Mulder's apartment for well over two hours after that. Doggett claimed no responsiblitiy for that. Those jeans were an incitement to...well, to something, that was for sure. 

Even after they made it to the hardware store, it'd taken forever to pick the paint. Doggett stared at the handfuls of strips of paint chips, trying to figure out the difference between "Fairy Glade" and "Aurora Breath" and not really noticing much that separated the two shades of pink. He had a vague idea he'd wanted to paint the nursery pink or yellow, but once confronted with the sheer number of choices, he felt paralyzed. Mulder wasn't any help, though Doggett did notice that Mulder gravitated to the yellow strips of color. 

Mulder was a few feet away and as Doggett happened to look up from "Amalfi Sunrise" a brief smile built itself into a grin on Mulder's face, but just as quickly vanished when he caught Doggett's eye. 

"What?" Doggett asked. "You getting sick of this? I can't say I blame you. If you want to bail, I understand." 

"No, not at all," Mulder said, his voice full of soft longing and...regret. "I was just thinking how I never thought I'd be able to do something like this. I was thinking about the child that your little girl would grow into and wondering what color she would like four years from now. And then when you looked at me, I remembered that I can't assume anything. That I can claim no portion of this. That it's beyond presumptuous for me to do so." 

Yes, Mulder would definitely have to be gentled into this. And somehow Doggett knew that to rush Mulder, to tackle with the facts that Doggett not only made those presumptions Mulder didn't want to lay claim to, but was hoping Mulder might just start looking for someone to sublet that apartment of his and call the U-Haul people, would scare him off. Doggett didn't love or trust easily, but when he did, he dove in head first, deep as he could. He was ready for commitment and forever. Mulder, he could tell, was not. But on the other hand, Mulder needed some hint, some gleaming of hope. A few convenient breadcrumbs, so to speak. 

"Hey, guy," Doggett said, fanning out paint chips. "We're picking out paint chips at the moment. Don't imagine yourself dumped when we've just barely got ourselves past hello. I met you, what, seventy-two hours ago? Let's take things one step at a time here. Right now, paint is on the agenda." 

"Right," Mulder said, with a wry grin, sounding still rueful, but a little more hopeful than before. "What do you think of this one?" 

He was holding up the same soft yellow that Doggett had been looking at earlier. Amalfi Sunrise. "I like it," Doggett said, then more out of a desire to get the hell out of there than a true love for the color, added, "Let's go with that one." 

* * *

Brad was her secret pleasure, the satiation that no one knew about. Her affair, as she always called it, relishing the implications of illicit joys and impropriety. It wasn't even that she liked him so much as she loved him as her secret lover. She never would have considered taking him as husband, even if that had been offered. What she wanted, what she craved were these stolen nights in hotel rooms where he made her feel like the bad girl she always wanted to be but knew that deep down she wasn't. He wasn't a good man. She knew that and somehow, for what she wanted out of him, it was better that way. 

Right now, Brad was sleeping off the exhaustion of their lovemaking and she laid beside him in the darkness, thinking about the last couple of days, of the excitement, of meeting Agents Mulder and Scully. The hotel room was dark except for one light on the bedside table. The curtains were drawn tight against the outside world. As she luxuriated in the smoothness of cool sheets against her naked skin, in the warm solidness of the man sleeping next to her, in the delicious feeling of being such a bad girl, she was also wondering what Agent Mulder and John were getting up to at the moment, if they'd fallen into each others arms like she was sure they would. It'd be a shame if they didn't. She wondered, was Scully at home alone? Would the woman get over Mulder? 

Brad started to stir next to her. She wondered whether he'd want another round or whether he'd rise and get dressed to go. Either way, she was satisfied. She wanted no more out of him than he'd ever given her and would have been horrified if he'd tried to give her too much. 

He suddenly came to full wakefulness with a quiet roar. He rolled her onto her back and buried his face into her breasts, smelling and relishing what he found there. She laughed a little, in delight and because it tickled slightly. Whatever else, he was good in the sack, that was for sure. 

"Brad," she said. "I was thinking. I know you're not my superior and the thing I'm going to ask is why one shouldn't sleep with one's superiors, but I was wondering if you might have any pull getting me posted to DC. So I could be nearer to you. I was hoping maybe I could work with Agents Scully and Mulder again." 

"I'll see what I can do about it later," he said. "Quiet now." 

And then he fell to her body like a man meeting a feast, even though he'd just feasted a while ago. She let herself surrender to his touch, knowing that for the moment at least, she wouldn't have it any other way. 

* * *

* * *

The funeral was in a vast Episcopalian church with stone ribs arching high overhead and the bright sun was muted through hue windows of stained glass. Doggett took his place in one of the dark wood pews in the back, Mulder at his side. He was surprised at how full the huge space was. Hundreds and hundreds of people gathered to mourn the death of a man who had never failed to be gentle and kind. 

Doggett stared ahead, above the heads of everyone else, to look at the back of Peter's husband, a big, tall man now hunched and beaten down by grief. Doggett could just about make out a couple of smaller tow-heads sitting in the same pew- Peter's young sons. Peter's husband was buttressed on one side by a woman who must have been his mother, but on the other, he had to provide that for his sons. 

In the otherwise hushed moments before the funeral started, all that could be heard through the sanctuary was the sound of weeping. Finally the first notes of the organ swelled and the funeral had started. 

Scully slid into the pew beside them just a moment after the procession. She seemed comfortable following along with the congregation from one of the little red prayer books that were scattered along the pews, her voice softly rising and falling with each prayer. But Mulder and Doggett mostly just silently stood and kneeled and sat as the congregation did. And Doggett let the knife of guilt twist into his gut the whole time, trying to figure what, if anything, he could have done differently. If it would have brought more peace to the family if Klassen had been brought to trial, rather than killed. 

In the car later, on the way to the cemetery, Mulder said, "I have the 911 transcripts you know." 

"I didn't," Doggett said. 

"And the guy who got me those has a friend who happened to be monitoring police frequencies that night. He got interested in what was happening. He recorded it." 

"So?" 

"I have that too," Mulder said. "And I'll be passing those along to Skinner. I thought about trying to do something on my own, but I think this is a case where the bureaucracy should do its own skewering." 

"What are you talking about?" Doggett asked. 

"I mean, the blame for Peter's death doesn't fall in the slightest on you. You did everything you could. But the Chevy Chase PD received multiple 911 calls from Peter and dismissed him as a crank. And even when you called it in, don't you think they were slow in getting there. Almost so slow it had to be deliberate?" 

Doggett didn't want to believe what Mulder was implying- that there had been police discrimination. And it had led to a man's death. On the other hand, Doggett was sadly, but hardly surprised by the fact. Only the fact that Mulder thought he had proof of it surprised him. 

"The wheels of an internal investigation grind slow, but extremely fine," Mulder said. "It will be taken care of, I'm sure. Skinner will know what to do. He's a good man, Skinner is. He really believes in what he does. In justice and that he's bringing it into being." 

"He believes in you, doesn't he?" Doggett asked, feeling the jealousy rise again, to hear Mulder talk about Skinner with such patent, unvarnished admiration in his voice. "And in your work. No one else would put up with your ufo chasing." 

"Only because he's seen things that he can't otherwise explain. Only because there is something for him to believe in." 

"I'm trying to keep an open mind about what you do, what you believe, Fox," Doggett said. "I just find it hard." 

"If you keep an open mind and hang around me for a while, I can guarantee that in a year, you'll be finding conspiracies at a church picnic," Mulder said, with a wry half smile. 

"Which church?" Doggett asked. 

* * *

It was one of anyone's biggest nightmares- to be the one standing on the outside of the grave, watching as they lowered the one you loved into the ground. Mulder watched Peter's husband face what must have been a nightmare for him. Words meant to be comforting but that must have been meaningless, were spoken by the black clad priest. Then the gleaming dark wood casket was lowered into the ground. Peter's husband was carrying his youngest son, but the older was standing on his own, holding his father's hand. As they lowered the coffin, the boy, who must have been a small nine or ten, called out, "Daddy!" then tried to run to the grave, as if he were going to throw himself on the coffin. Peter's husband held fast to the boy's hand, but so strongly did the boy tug that he nearly fell over. A slightly older man, a brother or uncle perhaps, stepped from behind Peter's husband and took charge of the nine year old, taking his hand, leading him away, and then when the boy collapsed to the ground crying, lifted him up and carried him away. 

There wasn't a separate coffin, but the priest and the family had made it quite clear that two souls were being laid to rest today. Peter's third son would have been named Dale Elijah Van Buren. At the church, Peter's coffin had been draped with a long purple and white cloth, but they'd had a large framed picture of the man, and next to that, a framed copy of an ultrasound where you could see hands, feet, a head- the child that Klassen had deprived the world of. 

At times like this, Mulder wondered what the use of words was, what kind of comfort they could bring at a time like this. John seemed especially to shrink at the sight of the little boy suffering. 

Finally it was over, the last handfuls of dirt sprinkled, the people scattering back to their cars, the priest taking off his purple stole. Mulder put an arm around John's shoulder to guide him back to the car they'd come in. 

"Agent Doggett?" a woman called. "Agent Mulder?" 

She was a slender, older woman, all in black, her eyes red but now dry as if she'd been crying until the well had gone empty. "I'm Galen Van Buren. Peter's mother. John wanted to speak with you before you left." 

She led them to where Peter's husband stood alone by the car, children obviously elsewhere for the moment. If nothing else, there seemed to be a large family to rally around the man, supporting him in this worst of times. 

"I just wanted to thank you, Agent Doggett," he said. "For shooting that...that animal. I think that the only thing that could make this ordeal worse is to have to go through a murder trial.." 

It was then that Mulder recognized the man, who'd been hauntingly familiar. He was an assistant DA. He'd been assisting with a case that Mulder had testified at. 

"I did what I had to do," Doggett said. 

"Well, thank you. It means the world to me to know that Peter's murderer isn't walking free," he said. "At least in my head, it feels better. I don't think anything could make up for Peter being gone." 

They spoke a few more words to each other, these more of the usual consolation one tried to express in these situations. Ultimately, did it really make much of a difference, Mulder asked himself. Then, finally, they broke apart, with an invitation to come back to the house. 

Doggett stayed near the gravesite, not ready to leave yet, it seemed. "You'd think I'd feel better, knowing that I put the bullet in the head of the guy that killed Peter, but I don't. It didn't bring Peter back. Nothing can," he said. "It just seems like Peter died for no good reason. Meaninglessly." 

"Someone once said something to me, that meant a lot to me at the time he said it, which was not long after my sister had been killed," Scully began. She spoke softly, in that way of hers. Mulder's heart lightened some, because it meant that Scully had come to some kind of acceptance, that she'd decided that she cared about Doggett somewhere along the line. "Someone said to me that we bury the dead alive. That they're really still with us, and that they're begging us to give their deaths' meaning. If nothing else, John, the evidence we found at the scene of Peter's murders should be enough to link Klassen back to the other murders. And no more men and babies will die at his hands. That's meaning." 

"But is it enough?" Doggett said. He walked away from the big, gaping hole in the ground. The men with their heavy machinery, the backhoe, the big truck, were waiting for the last people to leave before they began filling in the grave. 

"Take me home, Fox," Doggett asked. 

* * *

It'd been several, happy uneventful weeks. Mulder somehow had avoided travel assignments. The painting of the nursery had been finished, even though Mulder had had to call in reinforcements, in the form of Frohike, to help him finish the job. Mulder got rewarded suitably. Frohike got pizza and beer. 

Doggett slowly, cautiously tried to lure Mulder into his life, a night at a time, trying to make Mulder think there were no assumptions made. Cautious enthusiasm would suceed where overwhelming passion would cause the man to flee, Doggett was sure. Mulder sometimes spent the night, sometimes he'd get a little spooked and spend a few days away, immersed in his own world, his basement and his apartment. But he'd always return, usually showing up on Doggett's doorstep with a smile and maybe even a small gift, usually for the baby. 

That's what he'd done this warm April evening. Doggett had snuck away from work early to get off his feet. It was in the seventies and it'd been heaven to get out of his suit. He'd been planning to take a shower, so he was wearing his robe when Mulder rang the bell. 

Mulder was standing outside on the porch with a wrapped present, one larger than usual. He'd come straight from work and was still wearing a suit, one that seemed to fit him with easy grace. What was his secret for looking so good, Doggett wondered. 

"Nice package," Doggett said looking down past the gift, making the dual meaning of his comment more than obvious. 

"Uh...thanks," Mulder said, flustering slightly with embarrassment. 

"You going to come in or just stand there?" Doggett asked when Mulder didn't seem inclined to enter even though he'd stood aside. Actually, Doggett didn't mind. The slight breeze was mild, with hints of summer sweetness to come soon. 

"I can't stay," Mulder said. "I just wanted to stop by and drop this off. I'm on my way out of town. I was going to head to the airport as soon as I left here." 

Doggett had to be philosophical about it despite the rock of disappointment that precipitated immediately in the bottom of his stomach. He knew what an agent's life was like. He was only surprised that Mulder hadn't been gone out of town up to now. "Oh," he said. "Where you going?" 

"Oregon," Mulder said. "Bellefleur." 

"What's happening there?" Doggett asked. At the same time, he squeezed the present slightly. It was an irregularly shaped lump, covered with bright yellow flower print gift wrap. Whatever was inside, it was soft, kind of like a doll or a stuffed animal. Mulder seemed to be anxiously waiting for him to open it. 

"Strange events. Possibly a replay of strange events that happened over seven years ago, one of the first cases Scully and I worked together. UFO abductees are disappearing again." 

Mulder seemed to be excited and worried in equal measure. And there was something he wasn't saying. Doggett didn't exactly know him well enough to read him like a book just yet, but Mulder tended to broadcast certain emotions like billboard advertisements. 

"It's more than that, isn't it?" Doggett asked. 

Mulder sighed, heavily. "They're talking about shutting the X-Files down again, for financial reasons this time. We had an auditor in the department today. He called our expenses outrageous compared to our results. This isn't exactly an authorized trip. I'm taking a huge risk here. If I don't get results this time, I may be out on my ear." 

Doggett had the sudden, perhaps perverse thought that maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea. It'd get Mulder out of the line of fire and besides, he'd always wanted a househusband. 

"Well, hurry home," Doggett said. He started tearing into the package heedlessly ripping the paper. Inside was a funny looking rag doll, obviously old. 

"It's been in the family a while," Mulder explained. "You know when I was gone last weekend. I was up at my mother's house, going through things and I ran across this. I thought J. Edgar Jr. there might like it." 

Doggett was guessing that the doll had probably been Mulder's when he was a kid. It definitely had the look of something that had been loved until it was grubby. "Thanks," Doggett said, truly touched. "You sure you can't stay for a little while?" 

"Not a minute more if I'm going to catch that flight," Mulder said. He was broadcasting the fact that he wished the answer was anything but that. 

* * *

The worst thing about prison, Alex Krycek thought, was how loud it was. Even worse than the suffocating heat or the lack of water or the barely adequate food was the noise. It bounced off the walls of this hellhole he'd been thrown into magnifying, echoing. The clatter and clanging of metal against concrete- cell bars being battered with tin cups, doors thrown open, guards banging on the bars in ineffectual attempts to quiet disorder. Even at night it was loud with the breathing of thousands of men packed into the space for a couple of hundred, with the grunting of those willingly participating in just about the only pleasure left to them, and with the screams of those participating in another's pleasure not so willingly. Then the screams of the madmen that were not segregated out from the regular prison population. The occasional thud of fists and feet meeting flesh. 

Of all the hells to get thrown into, Alex thought, why did it have to be an Algerian prison? 

A massive susurrus of voices had started far away, towards the prisons entrance. Alex was no more that mildly curious. If it affected him, he'd know soon enough. For the moment, he huddled in his corner of the cell feeling his belly yet again with morbid curiosity. 

The prison authorities didn't care if you were, as they so indelicately put it, a pussy man. Alex figured he was about five months along. That's how long ago his first unguarded moment had led to the first rape. Since then, he'd done what he did best- survived. It made sense to get himself a protector. Experience had proven that there would always a vulnerable moment. So, he'd insinuated himself into the "affections" of Demitrios, a big Greek, with the dull malicious intelligence of a snake, who was in the prison for drug running, the same putative offense that Alex had been clapped into this hell for. Demitirios liked the fact that Alex had a cunt for him to use, and he liked to call Alex his pussy. He especially liked to think that he was the one who'd planted the seed in the field he plowed whenever he got the chance. Perhaps he was right. It didn't matter. Alex was on the constant look out for anything that he could shove up there and abort this...imposition. The instant he found something, he'd do it, even if it meant dying from sepsis or bleeding to death. Anything was better than this. The prison authorities looked the other way, not seeming to notice that Alex was pregnant. But then, why would they? Two weeks ago, a man had died a few cells away and it had been three reeking, insufferably hot days until they'd retrieved the body. Probably they'd waited until the smell had reached their guard room. 

The clamor got louder and was suddenly centered around his cell. He looked up and there, standing outside of it, with prison guards surrounding her was an unmistakable blond woman. She looked crisp, exquisitely dressed, utterly in command of the situation- in short, a far cry from the last time he'd seen here, infected with the black oil and a husk of a woman. He stood up and pushed his way to the front of the cell. 

"Your release has been arranged," she said. 

"Marita Corvarrubias," Alex said, a distinct hiss in his voice. "The last time I saw you, I left you for dead." 

"Alex," she said. She didn't seem at all pleased to see him. Not that he blamed her, but she should understand. She was just like him. You did what you had to. "If it were strictly up to me, I'd leave you here to rot, too." 

He was about to say something about how he'd rather rot in this prison cell, but then he looked over at Demitrios' musclebound, hairy body. He thought about the smelly, uncomfortable couplings he'd endured for the sake of the fact that it was just one, not many. He felt his belly, thought about his chances of getting rid of it on the outside versus here on the inside. And he climbed to his feet awkwardly and was gone out of the cell door as soon as it was opened. Someone handed him a water bottle and he didn't so much drink from it as absorb the water like a sponge that had been bone dry for months. He was so dry he'd stopped realizing it, stopped thinking about it. It'd just been a fact of life around here, like the lice. The water was empty far too soon and he looked for more, but none was forthcoming. 

"Who sent you?" he demanded to know. 

"The smoking man," she said. "He's dying." 

"What does he want?" Alex asked. Not that he really cared. If it would get him out of here, Alex would have shot his own foot off. Given away his other arm. 

"A singular opportunity, he said," she said. "A chance to rebuild the project." 

A few hours later, he was ensconced in a modern hotel, showering in blessedly cool water, finally feeling something more like himself. Marita had produced something that looked like his old clothes for him to wear, along with a prosthetic arm. Those were folded on top of the toilet seat waiting for him to be done. He drew out the shower for far longer than he could justify, until Marita entered the bathroom and said through the shower curtain, "Krycek, we have to go. There's a plane to catch." 

"We go to a doctor first," he said, firmly. He was prepared to beg, but he was not going to be reduced to that if he could avoid it. "I have to get rid of this." 

He stepped out of the shower, unashamed in front of her. His belly had just recently begun a perceptible swelling, his condition becoming finally obvious to the world at large. 

"There's not time," she said. 

"I'll beg if I have to. I'll take care of it myself with one of the hangers from your dry-cleaning if I have to," he said. 

Something in her icy look softened. She understood, perhaps had even had such a need for herself at some point in the past. "There's no time. But the doctors in the States are superior anyway. The best we could find at such short notice here would be some quack who would scrape you out and kill you with sepsis." 

A short time later, they were on a small private jet to Nice, and not long after that, in first class seats on the next flight to DC. Marita told him, "I've arranged for you to see someone almost immediately after we touch down. We're slightly ahead of schedule. He's not a project doctor. For some reason, the project has never found a reason to co-opt an androcologist. I found someone who knows a Senator who has a reason to owe me a favor indirectly." 

Then, hours later, Alex found himself being chivvied in the back away into the offices of one Dr. Koskiusko. In short order, Alex had been put into one of those open backed gowns and nothing else, had his weight, blood pressure and medical history taken. The doctor himself, who came in only after all of that had been done by a coolly efficient assistant, was a huge hearty man, too breezily good natured to be an owned man. Or at least not owned by the "special interest groups" that Alex knew. 

"How are you doing, Mr. Auerbach?" he asked after reading Alex's chart. He was calling Alex by his chosen pseudonym. 

"I'll be better as soon as we get rid of this," Alex said, indicating his belly. 

"According to your friend Ms. Corvarrubias, you're a victim of rape?" the doctor asked, now more sympathic than , sizing Alex up, even as he was starting with the usual doctor things, touching Alex's belly. "Legs up on the stirrups, slide down please. More." 

There were probing, but somehow not invasive fingers. Nothing had been shoved into his cunt yet. "Yes, that much is obvious. There's scarring here. Lots of it. Note on his chart, severe scarring on the perinenum, possibly indicative of multiple rapes. Most likely you'd have a difficult time delivering naturally. When and where did this happen, Mr. Auerbach?" 

"It doesn't matter," Alex said. "Just pray very hard to whatever God you believe in that you never end up there." 

The doctor didn't commment on that, but he did look at Alex as if he were full of questions that he knew would be a very bad idea to ask or to have answered. Instead, he said, neutrally, "I'm going to slip a speculum in now, to take a look at your cervix." 

And then something hard and obviously metallic, but not cold was eased in. There was an uncomfortable fullness as it was opened, but it wasn't actually painful. The doctor made questioning noises as he looked, then said, "Also note on his chart, scarring on the cervix. Mr. Auerbach, I'm going to have to do an ultrasound so I can see what I'm dealing with here. You don't have to look, and in fact, I would advise you not to look." 

A short time later, cold gel was being smeared over his belly and a wand device was run over the curves of his abdomen. Soon, it'd be flat again. He was counting on that. Couldn't see that he had any other option than that. 

"You said you thought no more than five months along?" the doctor asked. "Are you certain?" 

"Why?" Alex asked suspiciously. "It has to be. The first time I was ever exposed to semen, other than my own, after my change, was five months ago. And my change was complete only seven months ago." 

"You carry extremely well," Koskiusko said. "Almost entirely internally for a long time. You must not have shown at all until just recently. But judging from size and development, this fetus is seven months old, not five." 

Alex's hackles went up immediately. Suspicions turned themselves into suppositions. His hand automatically went to the back of his neck. Yes, there were chunks of time in his life he couldn't entirely account for, that was one of the hazards of his involvement. But... 

"Get it out of there, now," he demanded. "Now. Start now." 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Auerbach, but you're going to have to find yourself another doctor," Koskiusko said. "I feel sympathy for you, but this is a surgery that I cannot perform in good conscience. That fetus is old enough it could almost certainly survive in the care of a good neonatal unit. Despite what sounds to be a total lack of prenatal care, I see no signs of congenital or developmental disorders." 

"You don't understand," Alex said. "This fetus can't be allowed to survive." 

He didn't say what he was thinking, that this was no natural conception. It wasn't the result of his rape in prison, but of an insidious yet no less heinous kind of assault. He wasn't exactly sure what manner of cuckoo's egg had been foisted into his womb, but knowing his erstwhile employer and his colleagues, it couldn't be anything good. Some new hybrid, some new monster. The first generation of a would be slave race, developed by men who thought it better to serve and survive at any cost than resist and possibly die. And he'd been thrown in that prison not, as he had thought, out of sheer malice and spite, but so he couldn't do anything about his situation until it was almost too late. 

"I'm sorry, but I cannot do this, Mr. Auerbach," Koskiusko said. 

"You have to," Alex said. "If you don't, I'll shoot myself in the stomach the moment I walk out of here. I'm that serious. This fetus is a product of my rape and I will willingly die before I allow it to live." 

Alex was not exaggerating and it must have shown on his face, because Dr. Koskiusko's face clouded over. "I can't do this. But I can give you a referral. Someone who will. A military doctor." 

A short while later, Alex was walking out the door with an envelope with the ultrasound pictures, the only copy of his chart and a referral. As far as Dr. Koskiusko was concerned, Alex had never been there. 

Marita looked at him strangely as they took the elevator down to the parking garage together, but kept silent. 

"You didn't go through with it," she said finally as they got into the big, black Lincoln Continental with the dark tinted windows that she'd been driving. 

"The fetus is seven months old, not five," he said, meaningfully. 

"Oh," she said, comprehending immediately. 

* * *

As he could have predicted even before he got on the plane to Oregon, he was leaving with nothing to show for his chances and efforts. 

And Scully, she was leaving the X-Files. It had been during the interview with Theresa Hoese that she'd gotten a brief, mournful look on his face as she'd held the baby. On their way out to the car, she'd said it. The other shoe had dropped. 

"I've decided to leave the Bureau, Mulder. It's over. I've decided I need to see what shards of my life are left for me to pick up and put back together," she'd said. And he couldn't see that he could, in good conscience, do or say anything to stop her. She deserved her life. And he and his obsessed quests had kept her from that for so long. 

For now, he was sitting in his office, a copy Scully's letter of resignation sitting on his cleared off desk. He was pointedly not working, his feet propped up on the desk. He tossed a basketball up in the air and caught it again and again, in desultory perfection. It was comforting. Basketball was one of his oldest and most faithful friends. The orange dimpled rubber ball just belonged in his hands. He thought of how this was nearly over. He thought of time after time, waiting for an informant, bouncing this ball to burn off the hours. 

There was a soft knock on the door, then it opened. John had ventured down to the basement to find him. "I heard you're back," he said. 

"Like the proverbial bad penny," Mulder said, not able to help the slight grin that crept onto his face as if it could avoid notice by his overall stormy mood. John could do that to a man. Love could do that to man. 

Mulder had been thinking about Scully's resignation, wondering if a letter of his own shouldn't grace Skinner's in box along with Scully's. Once before Skinner had talked him out of it, but he didn't think Skinner would do that this time. If Scully had her shards of her life that she wanted to pick up, then didn't he have his own? Wasn't there something in the world that just might prove to be more important that the work? He thought about lying in bed with John, his head down near John's belly, and feeling John's belly move, just slightly, with the motion of the child inside. 

"You coming home with me tonight?" John asked. 

"Later," Mulder said. "Right now I'm thinking about the unpredictable and indefinable actions of fate, how a chance curve in the track of one's life can change everything. A single action throwing the orderly and expected path of the pendulum to another and entirely unpredictable arc. Oh, and how to throw a curve ball." 

"A curve ball?" John asked in perplexed amusement. 

"I think about curve balls a lot," Mulder explained. 

John sat himself on the edge of Mulder's desk when there was another noise out in the hallway. John had been about to lean in for kiss but then someone was walking in the door. 

Skinner. "Join the party, Walter," Mulder said, in a tone that could almost be interpreted as insubordination. It didn't matter, the thread his job was holding to was about to snap anyway. "It's like old times. Just might be the last time. You must have heard I went to Oregon and didn't bring anything back. I hope that nothing I've done reflects badly on you." 

"Well, unlike you, they believe I make a contribution," Skinner said. 

"Stick to a budget you're making a contribution," Mulder said, bitterly. "Push the boundaries of your profession and you're out of control. In any case, I came back empty handed." 

"Mulder," Skinner said, not unsympathetically, "You could bring home ET and his flying saucer and it wouldn't make a difference. They don't like you." 

There was a sound out in the hallway, then a familiar face looked around the doorway into the office. A familiar and hated face. It was like his body reacted even before his mind could fully register who the face belonged to. He launched himself away from his desk towards Krycek, calling out, "Alex Krycek, you bastard." 

"Mulder! You need to listen to him," Skinner said, interposing himself between Mulder and Krycek. John was nearly as fast, putting strong, restraining hands on Mulder's shoulders. 

"Mulder, you wouldn't hit a pregnant guy, now would you?" Krycek said, his voice soft and insinuating, the usual husky and sexy sound that tortured Mulder whenever he was around. Alex Krycek had been Mulder's sexual epiphany, never mind that the closest he'd even gotten to the man was beating him. Never mind that he hated Krycek for everything the man had done and gotten away with. Mulder was in love, real love, with John, but what Krycek did to him was simply indecency that waltzed all over his glands and common sense. 

"I can see you finally took my suggestion to go fuck yourself," Mulder sneered to cover his discomfort. It was vitally important that John not guess his feelings about Krycek. He just hoped this wasn't coming off too much like a kindergartener teasing the girl he liked. 

"I'd love to stand around and engage in more witty banter," Krycek said. "But time is slipping away. We have a unique opportunity here. A ufo collided with a military aircraft. It's grounded, for now, but it's repairing itself even as we speak and it'll be gone soon." 

"Why should I listen to you?" Mulder asked. 

"Would I lie to you, Mulder?" Krycek asked, even as his voice was dripping with sincerity so patent that it had to be a false front. 

* * *

Doggett couldn't believe what he was hearing. This man, this Alex Krycek was talking about UFOs and Roswell and everyone, including AD Skinner, was just sitting around, acting as if it were normal. As if they believed all of this. At one point while they were making plans, Doggett even pulled Skinner to the side and asked him point blank, no, not if Skinner was crazy, but if he really believed in all of this. In Mulder. 

"I have never seen a UFO, Agent Doggett," Skinner said, his voice low, but still forceful. "That much is true. But with Mulder's help, I have seen things that I wouldn't have thought possible. Things I would have been afraid to look too closely at, except for Mulder being at my side." 

"So, you think if Mulder says there's such a thing as real UFOs, then chances are," Doggett started, but couldn't quite bring himself to finish. 

"Then, yes, I believe it's not just possible, but likely there are UFOs," Skinner finished. "Consider this, Agent Doggett. Once, not too long ago, a man would be considered ridiculous for proposing the idea that a man could give birth. And yet, a moment ago, I was standing in a room with three men who are going to do just that." 

"So, Mulder's just a little ahead of his time, that what you're saying?" 

"He always has been. We'll all catch up soon enough," Skinner said. "Agent Doggett, don't worry. I'll take care of him for you. Keep him from falling off that limb he's always going out on." 

Doggett startled a little. It wasn't as if Mulder and he had been even slightly open about their relationship. It wasn't as if Doggett had hung on Mulder while they were standing around, looking at satellite data that had been downloaded, quite possibly illegally by the Gunmen. 

"He told me himself, Agent Doggett," Skinner said. "He didn't want anyone to be able to use it as ammunition against him or you. I'm pleased he has you, Agent Doggett. I'm hoping it will make him less reckless. We should get back to the crowd before we're missed." 

Two of the three Gunmen had come out for the strategy session, Byers remaining at home with their children. Krycek was still there, as was Marita Corvarrubias, that mysterious, reticent blond woman. Only Scully was missing, Mulder having quickly, and obviously painfully to him, explained that she'd resigned, effective immediately. There'd be time to think about that later. 

They walked back into the room they were using, actually Skinner's office, their satellite data images spread out over the substantial wood conference table. That part of the cherry wood that wasn't covered with printout was covered with takeout containers, since they'd worked all through dinner and into the night. 

Not long after, Langly gasped. Almost immediately, his face turned pale and his jaw set hard. Frohike noticed first and reacted immediately, taking Langly by the elbow and leading him away from the table they'd all be standing around and towards a chair. 

"What's the matter, Langly?" Frohike asked. 

"Well, I'm not exactly an expert. I've only done it three times before," Langly said. "But I'm thinking that you'd better get me to the hospital now, unless we want to have to call the kid J. Edgar, in honor of his birthplace." 

And then Langly gasped again, obviously already having hard contractions. 

Suddenly Frohike and everyone else was snapping into action and before Doggett could hardly figure out what was going on, Langly had been shuffled off, presumably to the hospital. Only Marita Corvarrubias and Alex Krycek hadn't joined in the fracas, and now, it seemed that they were attempting to fade into the background, insinuating themselves out of the Bureau just as smoothly as they had made their way in. 

Doggett was still quick enough on his feet and he made to put himself between them and the door of Skinner's big office. 

"Not yet," he said. "I want to talk to you." 

"I've got a doctor's appointment to keep," Krycek said. 

"For what?" Doggett asked. He was hardly the imposing kind of figure that would scare answers out of a character like Alex Krycek, but that wasn't going to stop him from asking. Often, just acting like you wouldn't take no for an answer was enough to get you yes, Doggett had learned over the years. 

"To take care of this," Krycek said, touching his pregnant belly. 

Take care of it? It took a moment for Doggett to piece it together that Krycek meant an abortion. Doggett must have waited just a moment too long, maybe he hadn't controlled the look of disgust that must have crossed his face, because Krycek defensively said, "I don't owe you an explanation." 

"No, you don't," Doggett said. Even if he didn't agree with it, the law was crystal clear- a person's body was their own business, even if those rights intruded on the rights of a fetus resident in that body. His business, his life's work, was upholding the law, even if he disagreed with it. 

"You have no idea what's happened to me," Krycek said. 

"You're right, I don't," Doggett said. "But it seems like a good idea not to let you just drop out of sight. Seems like Mulder and AD Skinner might still have some questions for you." 

"You can't keep me here," Krycek protested. "I'm not under arrest. You can't prove anything." 

"Given the way Mulder talks about you, I'm sure I could think of something," Doggett said. "Or I think I'll just go along to this doctor's appointment of yours." 

"Alex is in the country on a diplomatic passport, Agent Doggett," the enigmatic, blond Corvarrubias said. "A United Nations passport. He has immunity and you have no jurisdiction." 

"I'm just saying I'm going along for the ride with you, Ms. Corvarrubias. That's all," Doggett said. 

Her face went just that little bit icier, but she didn't say anything in protest. 

* * *

As they pulled into their slot in the parking garage connected to a huge, ten story building that was way out in the far suburbs in Virginia. It was yet another massive block of glass and concrete in an outscale landscape of similarly anonymous, faceless buildings. The buildings had lighted signs on their sides, saying that they were some large tech company, or that large banking concern. But Krycek knew that tucked away on other floors, right next to the named companies, were other companies only known by small innocuous names on the building directories. Companies that called themselves "consulting firms", "holding companies", and other things were in fact, far more sinister than that. If the consortium had walked the halls of the government with impunity, they walked through corporate America with no limits, no need to hide anything except in plain sight. Mostly those cover firms were gone, collapsed when the consortium had collapsed. But still, Krycek felt a pit of worry in his stomach to be going into such a building. You could be trapped in the middle of such a building, locked away only hundreds of yards away from freedom, but the world might never know you were in there. 

"I thought you said this was a military doctor," Doggett complained from the seat beside him. 

Now, that was a surprise there. Krycek had long been aware of Mulder's almost juvenile attraction to him, and he'd even used it before to manipulate Mulder. But had always thought the man to be too conflicted, too tied up in his own emotional knots to be anything but uptight. To see that Mulder had untied himself enough to form an attachment was surprising. To find out that man he'd attached to was a stubborn bulldog of a man like this Agent Doggett was even more surprising. 

"He's retired military, apparently," Marita said. "And is currently involved in a venture called Zeus genetics." 

* * *

Doggett followed Krycek, thinking that Mulder's obvious attraction to the man was no surprise. If a man as good looking as Alex Krycek didn't turn you on, then obviously you didn't have a switch. But on the other hand, Doggett felt only little twinges of jealousy. The attraction had also been obviously soured by hatred and that much was clear from Mulder's actions and attitudes. From what little Doggett had been able to gather, Krycek was a player for the other side on this conspiracy that was allegedly aiding and abetting these so far as Doggett was concerned, still mythical aliens that Mulder was going to go look for. What Doggett's every cop instinct told him for sure though, was that this Krycek was up to no good. 

They were shown through the lobby of this Zeus genetics through to an anonymous beige hallway, to a suite of offices that might have been any doctor's practice except their were no other patients waiting on the scattered handful of blue chairs in the waiting room and very little sign of them being there normally. No magazines, little wear on the upholstery, a receptionist that disappeared into the back again as soon as Krycek had been ushered away. 

Marita Corvarrubias was pointedly not talking to Doggett. Any time he'd make a comment or ask a question, she'd answer with a few, brief, utterly uniformative words, in short, the least she could get away with and not be egregiously rude. Doggett sat near her and just watched her after a few rounds of this. 

Corvarrubias' phone rang. She answered it and mostly listened, answering, just "yes," on occasion. And then she looked at Doggett and said, "Excuse me, Agent Doggett. I have to take this call. I'll be right back." 

So, she walked out of the waiting room, back towards the front lobby, leaving Doggett alone in the waiting room. He sat, doing nothing, thinking about how a short time ago, an Assistant Director of the FBI had confessed that he almost certainly believed in aliens in flying saucers, enough so that he was going to risk his career over it. He thought about how odd and uncomfortable this setup was making him. Especially after there was no further sign of Marita Corvarrubias or Krycek, nor even any of the this ex-military doctor's staff for a long time. He tried to plan what he'd do if Corvarrubias didn't come back, which it was looking like she might not. Like maybe, in some way or another, she might have double-crossed Krycek and Doggett was about to get caught in the crossfire. 

A long time passed and Doggett was still alone. He decided it was more than high time for him to do something about it. He levered himself out of his chair, feeling particularly heavy and ungainly. He wandered past the receptionist's desk and tried the door that separated the waiting room from the actual medical offices. Locked. He turned back to the receptionist's desk, wondering maybe if she'd left a key in a drawer or... 

Yes, there was a button to buzz the door open. It was under the desk, not in plain view, but running his fingers underneath the desk's top surface had brought it to his attention. One buzz and he was through the metal door. 

Doggett walked down the hallway, peeking into rooms that were open, trying the handles on doors that were shut, listening at them first. In all of the open ones, he saw the standard medical office set up, small examining rooms equipped with the usual examination tables, with stirrups, all of it familiar to Doggett. 

One of the closed doors he opened was an office, one wall lined with bookshelves which were mostly filled with what looked to be standard medical texts and works on genetics. No big surprises there. He wasn't ready yet to go rummaging in files or drawers. He was suspicious, had a real bad feeling about this place, but he was very cogent of the fact that he was on thin ground here, as far as anything he found being admissible as evidence, assuming he found proof of wrong doing. He turned away from the office and went back down the hallway. 

Anyway, behind the next closed door, he found something a hell of a lot more interesting. It was a laboratory of some kind, but like nothing that Doggett had ever seen before. Shelves, too, lined the walls in this room, but they did not hold books. No, they held preserved fetuses. Of sorts. Hundreds of them. 

All of these hundreds of fetuses were deformed in the extreme. Enough that Doggett gagged, feeling sick deep down in the pit of his stomach. Most of the fetuses had a tremendously outsized head, with eyes that were similarly disproportioned. Big, black eyes that stared sightlessly at him from inside their jars of formaldehyde. He'd never before seen anything like this, anything so horrifying. Their spines were twisted, as if they were trapped forever in some nameless agony. He ached to smash the jars, as if this would free them from this pain. It was obscene, nothing but obscene. 

He startled when his phone rang, but he answered it quickly, just to stop it from ringing. It was Mulder, breathless with excitement. 

"I'm at the hospital still," he said. "Langly just brought Gunman number seven into the world. They named him Harry Truman Byers-Langly. He's perfect, utterly perfect." 

"Send on my congratulations," Doggett said, wincing as he looked up again to see these deformed, pitiful would have been children even as he was hearing about the birth of a perfect, well child. 

"Where are you?" Mulder asked. 

"A place called Zeus Genetics. I followed Alex Krycek here. I'm in a room full of fetuses in jars. You wouldn't believe it. Some of them look like those pictures of your so-called aliens you were showing me. Huge heads, big eyes." 

"John, I'm coming to get you," Mulder said. "Be very careful." 

"No, Mulder," Doggett said. "You'll miss your plane. You heard Krycek himself say that this supposed UFO isn't going to be there forever. Look, I hear something. I gotta go." 

"Can I help you?" a man's voice asked, startling Doggett even though he'd been prepared. Doggett slipped the phone back into his pocket just before the man could have seen it. "What are you doing in here?" 

"I was waiting for a friend. He's a patient here," Doggett said, not wanting to give away much more than that. When the stern, white haired man who'd walked in seemed unmoved and unlikely to take this explanation as it was, Doggett added, "I was looking for a bathroom. I didn't find one out in the waiting area. I sort of wandered in here by mistake. What is all of this? If you don't mind me saying, this is all kind of creepy, like outta some kind of horror movie." 

"Though we see patients sometimes, Mr. I didn't catch your name..." the man began. 

"Doggett," he said, even though he wasn't quite sure of the wisdom of giving out that information. 

"As I was saying, Mr. Doggett, we sometimes see patients here, but primarily, we are a genetics research facility. We work on birth defects, the kind of defects that you see exhibited here. As a layman, you see this as a house of horrors, but I can assure that what's happening is important scientific work. Now, if you'll let me bring you back to the patient waiting area." 

"Can you show me the bathroom first?" Doggett said. And it was an honest request. His little girl, God bless her, was choosing right now to dance on top of a bladder that he'd just noticed was nearly up to the full mark. 

"Fine, let me just have Miss Markham show you," the doctor said. Within short order, the receptionist that had disappeared when Krycek had been led to the back room had reappeared. She led him to a bathroom first, then remained outside while he made use of the facilities. Then she led him back to the waiting room where she most firmly and definitively sat down at the desk she'd abandoned before. She was now gatekeeper and the message was clear- no more little unauthorized trips exploring the offices. And there was no further sign of Marita Corvarrubias. 

A brief burst of gunshot noise filled the office. Miss Markham was on her feet and into the back offices immediately. A moment later, there was another gunshot. 

A short while later, a dazed seeming Alex Krycek wandered out of the back area into the offices. He was fully dressed and pale, but his stomach didn't seem reduced in size at all, not that the man had been showing hugely. His clothes had blood stains and he was clutching an automatic. It was a Smith and Wesson, Doggett thought numbly, wondering what portion of his mind could find time to register that fact. 

"What's going on here?" Doggett demanded, rushing up to Krycek, wondering if it were possible for him to disarm the man without endangering himself. 

Krycek didn't answer him at first, just saying something under his breath. Something that sounded Russian to Doggett's ears, something that was obviously heartfelt curse words. "They had no intention of performing my abortion," he said finally. "Let's get out of here. Both our lives are in danger now." 

Krycek seemed about ready to fall over, but the fierce angry look in his eyes was a warning not to even offer help. 

"What's going on here, Krycek," Doggett demanded again, not particularly hopeful that this maniac was going to tell him. Maybe Mulder hadn't been so out of line to leap on the guy in homicidal rage at first sight. Doggett had heard five shots, and he figured that anywhere between three and five people might be dead. 

"You don't get it, do you Agent Doggett," Krycek said. His voice was strained and breathy. Definitely the man was in pain? Had one of those shots been at him? 

"What I get is that you've just shot up some doctor's office with the fact that they wouldn't perform an abortion as your justification," Doggett said. He was reaching for his own belt. Though his own gun had somehow already made it to his hand without him knowing when or how, he was reaching for his pair of cuffs. 

"This baby isn't human," Krycek said. "It's an alien. Or an alien-human hybrid. And that doctor and his cohorts have a deep interest in making sure I bring it to term, to the point of abducting me and holding me until it comes to term, then discarding me afterwards. Do you get that?" 

"You're pregnant with an alien?" Doggett asked in disbelief. "As in some guy from one of Mulder's flying saucers knocked you up?" 

Krycek muttered under his breath again, possibly English this time, but Doggett still didn't understand it. 

"What was that?" he asked. 

"I said, Mulder obviously didn't want you to think he was crazy, so he didn't tell you a damn thing," Krycek said. "Look, we have to get out of here now, I'll cover Conspiracy 101 later." 

"You're bleeding," Doggett said. "One of them take a shot at you?" 

"No, I think it was a scalpel," Krycek said, clutching a hand around the upper arm that was bleeding. The actual lower arm seemed to be hanging uselessly underneath and it wasn't until that point that Doggett noticed that it was actually a prosthestic arm. 

"We should get you to a hospital," Doggett said. 

"No hospitals," Krycek said. That wasn't stubbornness Doggett heard in his voice, but sheer and utter terror. 

"Let's get out of here," Doggett said. He just suddenly realized that before those shots he'd been afraid that either he or Krycek or both of them wouldn't be walking out of here. Now that they were being given a chance, he was going to take it. He'd deal with Krycek and his homicidal impulses later. 

And then suddenly, they were walking out the door, they were going down the elevator, they were in the parking garage. Miraculously, there were no signs of cops or even building security. No one trying to stop them. 

As Doggett almost expected, the black Lincoln Town Car they'd ridden over in was gone from its parking slot, with no further sign from Corvarrubias. 

"She took a call then she just disappeared," Doggett explained, wondering how they were going to get out of here. Krycek didn't seem surprised. He just leaned against a pillar, arms clenched around himself, lost in some painful little world of his own. Who could Doggett call? 

He didn't need to worry about that long. Krycek rallied. Somewhere, secreted in that black leather jacket of his had been a long, thin piece of metal. Before Doggett could even say anything, Krycek had it down the window of a car and then the car door was open. Krycek was on his knees, getting into the dashboard when Doggett noticed that his hands were shaking and man seemed about to keel over. 

"Let me get that," he said, reaching over Krycek for the wires that Krycek had pulled out. At least the guy had good taste in the cars he chose to steal. It was a big, American SUV, a GM Yukon. Plenty of room behind the drivers seat at least. 

"The irreproachable Agent Doggett knows how to hotwire a car?" Krycek asked, not quite sneering. 

"Gone in sixty seconds, Jack," Doggett said as he crossed the wires and got the sparks he was looking for. The big SUV started up with a pleasant rumble and they were ready to go. "Get in." 

* * *

Nothing surprised Krycek more than to look over and see Agent Doggett calmly driving a stolen car, sliding through morning traffic. Without being told, Doggett had chosen to steer them northernly, back towards the city, in the direction of the J. Edgar Hoover building. Krycek went along for the moment. He couldn't think of anything else to do. He was an opportunist. When the right opportunity sprang up, he'd act, but until then, he'd just drift like he always did. 

"We have to ditch this car soon," Doggett said. "I don't want to drive it to the Hoover. And we should do something about that arm." 

"Pull over here, to the drugstore," Krycek said. It might be a chance to ditch Doggett, but he wasn't going to do it. At the moment, it seemed useful to keep the man around, with Marita obviously having sold him out. He wasn't going to be as easy to manipulate as Mulder always was, but he would do. 

At Krycek's direction, they walked into the drugstore. Thankfully his leather jacket hadn't been cut and it covered the worst of the bloodstains. He could pass for almost normal. They walked through the aisles of deodorant, toothpaste, pain relievers and other sundries. Krycek picked up gauze and butterflies, a few other first aid supplies. The cashier rang them up without comment. 

In the backseat of the Yukon, Krycek patched himself up as best as he could with his simple first aid supplies. It really was far from the worst wound he'd ever survived without medical help. 

"You know, we really need to do something about the fact that you just shot up a doctor and his medical staff. Someone's going to notice." 

"Nobody is going to report these people as murdered," Krycek said. "It will be cleaned up, hushed up and all plausible deniability will be put in place. These people were in the pocket of a conspiracy so far reaching you couldn't even comprehend." 

And yet again, Doggett got that confused but stubborn look on his face. He was like a bulldog, Krycek thought, even if he didn't understand, he wasn't going to let go either. "What's going on? What are you talking about?" 

"It's about to be the shitstorm of the century, as your Mulder would say," Krycek explained. "And you have one choice coming up- resist or serve." 

"What proof do you have of any of this?" Doggett asked. 

"According to the first doctor that looked at me, I'm seven months pregnant. That's how I ended up with Dr. Lev. The first doctor wouldn't perform the procedure because I was too far along," Krycek said. "For the whole two years prior, I didn't have sex until five months ago, when I was raped in prison. The dates don't match up, Agent Doggett. There's no way I could have gotten pregnant in prison. It's impossible that I be pregnant this long." 

"Your other doctor could be wrong about the dates," Doggett said. "I could take you to my doctor for a second opinion." 

"Who's your doctor?" Krycek asked. As far as he was concerned, there probably wasn't one androcologist in the area who wasn't in the grips of this conspiracy in some way, Marita's assurance that the conspiracy didn't own an androcologist. 

"Dr. Koskiusko," Doggett said. 

"He was the one who sent me to Dr. Lev," Krycek said, recognizing the sudden twist of the verbal knife that would bring Doggett around to where he wanted the man to be. "He was the one who wouldn't perform the procedure. Are you even sure you have a normal pregnancy? That he hasn't been lying to you too?" 

* * *

A little too conveniently, Doggett's phone rang. He didn't answer Krycek's impossible to think about question, but instead got the phone. It was Dr. Koskiusko's office. It was the doctor's new assistant, the one who'd taken over for Peter. She wanted to know why he'd missed his appointment this morning. He hadn't noticed that he had until he looked at his watch and noticed that he was supposed to have been there about an hour ago. It was just to get his blood pressure taken, but the doctor had gotten real pushy lately about making sure he kept it. 

"I just got tied up with work," he explained. "Look, I'm on a case and this isn't a good time to talk. I'll call later today and reschedule." 

"Dr. Koskiusko just wanted me to emphasize how important your weekly appointment is," said the woman. 

"I said I'd call and reschedule," Doggett said. "It's not a good time now." 

And then he hung up. Part of him recognized that it was Krycek manipulating him, making him fear something that he shouldn't. Yet, those fetuses at Zeus Genetics couldn't but help make you think awful, terrible things. And to imagine that Koskiusko was somehow connected to that. 

"I'm taking you in now," he said to Krycek, even though he was pretty sure that wasn't going to happen. Krycek seemed to be pretty sure of that, that there was no danger of anything Doggett charging him with actually sticking. 

"No," Krycek responded, as if it were even an option. "I'm going to track down the cigarette smoking son of a bitch who got me this way and send him back to the hell he came from. And in any case, if you don't remember, you're an accessory to a crime. You fled a crime scene and helped me do the same, you're currently harboring a known felon and you're driving a stolen car. One that you hotwired yourself. And it's your own interest to help me find the smoking man, because he's the one that sent me to tell Mulder about that UFO. And send him into almost certain danger." 

"He's in danger?" 

"Almost certainly." 

"We have to go back to the Hoover anyway," Doggett said. It wasn't that he was above breaking the rules, or at least bending them a little. But he had to have good reason. If it could help Mulder, then he'd do it. He couldn't reach Mulder. By now, he'd be in the air. Any information about this guy that Krycek called the cigarette smoking man would certainly be helpful to Mulder, maybe even lifesaving from the sound of it. "My car's there." 

His phone rang again. 

"John," the voice on the other end of the line said. "This is Dr. Koskiusko. I just heard from my receptionist that you refused to reschedule your appointment." 

"I told her, this isn't a good time," Doggett said. Important or not, he wasn't going to schedule another appointment with Koskiusko until the man's name could be cleared of involvement in this conspiracy. To just think about those fetuses made him shudder. 

"It's extremely important, John," Dr. Koskiusko said. "I'm extremely worried about you. I was just going over your chart and according to the stats we took at your last appointment, you gained over fifteen pounds. Your blood pressure is up to almost worrisome levels. I want you to come in for a test for protein in your urine." 

"I told her, I'd reschedule," Doggett said firmly and prepared to hang up. 

"Listen, John," Koskiusko said. "I'm about to speak in terms that I'm sure you would never expect your doctor to use. But preeclampsia is not something you fuck around with. You could be endangering your baby here. If you go into eclampsia, the only cure is to deliver the baby and it's highly unlikely that she would survive that at this point in the game." 

* * *

Twilight was gathering as he and Skinner approached the woods in their rental car. If it had been Scully beside him, it would have felt like old times. As it was, his boss was cranky from having flown cramped in coach, which had been the only ticket out of town on such a short notice. 

As Skinner approached the woods, he said, "I'm beginning to feel like this is the snipe hunt I feared it is." 

"There's no such thing as snipes, sir," Mulder said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. All this time and all they'd been through, and Skinner still doubted him. Wasn't he due some respect? 

"Remember that my ass is on the line too, Agent Mulder," Skinner said. 

In a short time, they were getting set up with the makeshift equipment that the Gunmen had lined up for them, setting up a network of red laser lights scattering around the forest. 

"How's this supposed to work?" Skinner asked. 

"I'm not sure, but budgetarily, I'd say we're looking pretty good," Mulder said. It was then that he noticed the unusual behavior of the laser beams. They just ended at a point not far off, absorbed by something. He stood up and walked over to investigate. 

He put his hand out, touching the air at the point were they disappeared and suddenly, it was like he was someplace else, in another forest. It was quiet and ahead of him, he immediately saw the group, all of the missing, standing together. They seemed so peaceful, as if this was not just inevitable, but right. And it seemed that way to him. Right to walk into that circle of light, to join them, Theresa and Billy Miles and the rest. It wasn't until he looked over and saw that the Alien Bounty Hunter was standing among them that the shock and betrayal hit. And by then, it was too late. He couldn't move, couldn't protest. 

* * *

It was long dark by the time that they ditched the stolen SUV in a public parking ramp not far from the Hoover. 

Being in Agent Doggett's custody, such as it was, was much more pleasant than being in Mulder's, Krycek decided. Doggett hadn't once tried to hit him, whereas Mulder had always seemed, even when he wasn't actually striking out, to be on the edge of a murderous rage. Doggett was a decent man, Krycek thought. Decent right through to the core, not just as a facade. And Krycek had found himself talking to him, telling him the things he'd always tried to tell Mulder, but had never been able. Not that he seemed to believe Krycek. But he listened and asked questions that hovered between amused doubt to almost but not really pissed off disbelief. And yet somehow, Krycek felt like it would take only a few actual experiences more and he'd have a believer on his hands. 

"You said it's going to be colonization?" Doggett asked as they crossed the street and were nearly at the Hoover. "What's that supposed to mean? It's going to be like some bad movie on the TV at three in the morning and aliens are going to take over our brains or somethin'?" 

"They're already here, Agent Doggett," Krycek said. "The invasion has already begun. And powerful men controlled by aliens walk in the halls of the FBI." 

They were now steps from the front of the Hoover. Doggett paused a moment as he was about to approach the door, said, "I don't feel so..." 

And then he threw up, all over the steps they'd just been walking up. That wasn't so much the worrisome thing, so much as the fact that a moment later, Doggett went into a seizure, grand mal type, arms and legs everywhere. Doggett's eyes didn't close, but they were glassy, unseeing. The survivor in Krycek told him that this was his chance, that he could get away now, that this was his best chance. That by the time Doggett had been found and had recovered enough to realize that Krycek was gone, Krycek could have melted back into the gutters that'd he'd come from. 

Somehow, though, he couldn't do that. 

The door to the front lobby of the Hoover was a few steps away. It was the work of seconds to rush in and shout out to the uniformed guard in the lobby, "Hey! There's somebody out here who needs help. I think he's one of your agents. I was just walking by and I saw him fall. He's having some kind of fit." 

It was only after he saw the lobby guard jump to his feet and into action that Krycek then stole away into the night. 

* * *

He'd felt himself seizing, but it was like another beast entirely controlled his body. He'd felt himself hit the ground. It was oddly like not being in his body, and yet, still being in it. He lost consciousness not long after the uniformed guard knelt by his side and he didn't regain it until they were rolling him into the ER on a gurney. 

"Easy, lay back down, guy," a voice said to him, so Doggett stopped struggling and tried instead to focus on where he was and what he was doing there. Soon they'd rolled him into a little cubicle formed by the usual emergency room cloth curtains. And people were swarming around him. He felt weak, fuzzy, like he could hardly concentrate on the present moment, like he was going to slip back into unconsciousness at any moment. And his head felt funny, like it was huge, but his blood was pounding in his ears. And he felt like he just might throw up again sometime real soon. He actually did start gagging. One of those metal kidney shaped pans was shoved under his mouth, but only a little liquid came up and splashed into it. Somebody slipped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and a short while later, he heard her whisper, "Jesus." 

"Agent Doggett?" another nurse asked. "Who's your androcologist?" 

"I don't have one," he said, and then when he was met by a stare of disbelief, he said, "Sort of. I was going to find another one. I'm not sure I trust my current one." 

He heard someone in the background, just out of view behind the curtain, ask, "Do we have an androcologist on call?" 

"Are you kidding?" someone else answered. "Best we can do is an ob-gyn." 

"Well, get one down here now," the first voice answered. "I don't even want to touch this one. It's beyond me." 

"Mr. Doggett," the nurse asked again. "Can we have the name of your last androcologist? So we can get your records at least." 

He was inclined to not tell them. He didn't want anything to do with Koskiusko. Then it occurred to him that there were only about six androcologists in the area, and they just might call all of them until they found Koskiusko. 

"Koskiusko," he said, in a half whisper. 

They left him mostly alone for a while after that, probably primarily because Doggett heard them roll another couple of gurneys into the ER and God knew that in a city like DC, what just rolled in might be a lot more serious than his condition. It might be fatal gunshot wounds or something. 

Eventually though, the curtains parted again and at their opening a notably tall man stood next to one of the nurses, dwarfing her. He even topped Doggett by a good several inches. He was an older man, hair gone to salt and pepper. And Doggett recognized him instantly. 

It couldn't be. Out of all the damn ironies in the world, why was this particular one visited upon him. Out of all the ERs in the world he could have been rolled into, he had to be rolled into the one that this particular man was on call for. Doggett looked up and squinted closer, trying to read the man's name tag, painfully aware that this was the first time he knew the man's first name, much less his last, even though he'd been sharing his body with the man's daughter for over six months now. Dr. Daniel Kerry, obstetrics, was even more handsome in a white coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck than he'd been when he'd been dressed as a pirate. 

The man was, to the surface, everything Doggett thought he should be looking for in a man- with a serious demeanor and solid presence, nothing at all like the fluid and sometimes almost goofy grace that Mulder had. And yet, Mulder had been the one Doggett had fallen hard for, proving solidly yet again the fact that the human heart has its own reasons that reason has not a thing in the world to do with. 

"Has his family been informed?" the man was asking the nurse. He'd been mostly looking at Doggett's chart and hadn't actually really looked up at Doggett yet. "Who is the other father? Is he here?" 

Doggett couldn't help it. It slipped from his lips before he could control it. "You are," he said. 

It was only then that Kerry looked up. When he did, he swallowed hard. You could see the moment of recognition hit him like a skier hitting a tree. He knew exactly who Doggett was, recognized him immediately. 

"Halloween," Kerry said. "Club 1013. Are you sure?" 

"You're the only possible candidate," Doggett said. "Barring divine intervention. Look forget I said anything. I had no intention of going looking for you. Now that I found you, I'm not sure I want you involved. I have a lover. If I have anything to say about it, he's going to be this baby's daddy. So I'm just another patient. Another stranger. Nothing to do with you." 

"I can't...What's said is said. I can't not know now. I'm going to call another doctor for you. Are you sure you're changing from Koskiusko like you said? He's the best." 

For a minute, his fear of Koskiusko seemed like nonesense, like sheer paranoia beyond what even Mulder would see. But then he thought of the fetuses in glass and it all made sense again. 

And he suddenly realized, except for a few minutes earlier at Zeus Genetics when she'd been kicking his bladder, he'd hardly felt his girl move all day. 

"What's happening to me?" he asked. "Is my baby in danger?" 

"Yes," Kerry answered his voice harsh, sounding like the words had been strangled in his throat before being forced out. He swallowed hard again. "How much danger, we haven't been able to determine yet. But your blood pressure is very high. This is almost certainly preeclampsia transitioning into outright eclampsia. The fact that you went into seizure is not a good sign, though your blood pressure now is better than it was when the EMTs found you, which is a good sign. The most important thing you can do now is to lie still and relax. We're going to do the best we can to get your blood pressure down closer to normal." 

"What's the worse case scenario here? Just so I know," he asked. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know, but couldn't help asking, kind of like a person couldn't help but feel out a wound. 

Another hard swallow from Kerry, the slightly prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down on that solid column of a neck. "Fetal death. Or parental death. Or both." 

And that hit Doggett square in the middle of his gut like the crash test car hitting the concrete wall. 

"Is there anyone we can call for you, John?" Kerry asked. "Your lover? Family?" 

As much as he could while he was still reeling, he tried to think about that. It was unlikely that they'd be able to reach Mulder. Doggett had tried earlier in the evening and had gotten the electronic voice informing him that Mulder was away from his phone or out of the service area. As for family, all he really had was his mother, who was still pretending that he didn't exist anymore. As for other friends, the Gunmen had a new baby and with three kids already, that was too much on their plate. Was Monica a good enough friend that he could call her at night like this and expect that she'd drop everything and come to DC? 

"Call my ex-wife Barbara," he said finally, reluctantly coming to the conclusion that she was his best option at this point. "Number's on the speed dial on my phone. And my boss Laurel. I assume this mean's I'm not going back to work Monday morning." 

At Doggett's direction, Kerry dug through the pile of Doggett's things until he found the phone. Kerry stopped cold for a few seconds when his hand touched Doggett's gun, but he didn't say anything, and a short while later, he moved on. Next he pulled Doggett's FBI shield out of a pocket and looked at it curiously before he moved to put it back in the pocket he'd found it in. 

"Go ahead, take a look if you want," Doggett said, so Kerry flipped the shield open and examined it. 

"Special Agent John Doggett," Kerry said, murmuring. "You don't know what a relief it is to know your name finally. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. And hoping someday I would have a chance to apologize for my behavior at the club." 

Doggett didn't say anything. This wasn't exactly the time for this soap opera crap as far as he was concerned. Maybe later Doggett could take the time to disabuse the guy of this notion that there was really anything for them to talk about, beyond anything medical. When Kerry realized that Doggett wasn't going to respond, he started looking for the phone again. 

"This should really be turned off in here," he said when he pulled the small piece of equipment out of a pocket. "It interferes with the telemetry equipment other things. I'll go call for you and find you another doctor. Are you sure you want to dump Koskiusko? He'd be the only one I'd want to go to if I were in your condition." 

Doggett didn't answer. 

* * *

Finding the old man's apartment wasn't that difficult. He still had a few favors that were owed him, and enough of them were owed to him by people who'd have gladly sold out the old man for a dime. 

It was a bit of a shock to gain entry to the apartment and find that his old nemesis was a gray-skinned shell of a man, confined to a wheelchair, with a voice that was as rough and wispy as the grim November winds whipping around the abandoned houses of Chernobyl. Oxygen snaked to his blackened and shriveled lungs now through alien-like clear tubes. And it seemed like the only thing animating and sustaining him was the smoke from the cigarette that a uniformed nurse was holding to the stoma on his larynx. 

"Ah, Alex, my boy," Spender said once he'd inhaled and exhaled, the smoke obscenely curling out of the stoma again. "I've been expecting you. I assume you know by now that Mulder didn't succeed. It seems almost like you never meant for him to succeed. It's unfortunate, but luckily for us, all is not lost. Mulder's legacy lives on." 

And the cigarette smoking son of a bitch stared significantly at Krycek's belly. 

Krycek knew immediately, that look conveying the paternity of this fetus more convincingly than any genetic test could. 

Never let it be said that his life was anemic from an irony deficiency. He was carrying the child of a man who probably would have punched him in the gut, pregnancy or no, if Skinner hadn't been there. 

"I understand you've refused the prenatal care that I so painstakingly arranged for you," Spender wheezed. "But no matter, a different choice of doctors can be arranged." 

Krycek whirled inside with red fury, hardly able to think. He'd just barely escaped being abducted again. It was obvious that Spender intended for him to finish this pregnancy, against his will if necessary, to the point of forcible restraint. 

"The first thing I'm doing when I leave here is killing this fetus," Krycek said, scaring even himself with the low and furious sound of his voice. "Whatever it takes." 

"I'm sorry to hear you feel that way, Alex," Spender said, damn his arrogance. "Surely you can understand the importance of you carrying this child to term. To have this child is to have the answers to questions we cannot even begin to know to ask now." 

Krycek hurried around behind Spender's wheelchair and started pushing it towards the door. 

The nurse, who'd been hovering nearby anxiously, approached him, asking, "What are you doing?" 

With as little hesitation as he'd killed Dr. Lev and his cohorts, Krycek reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. Even though the Smith and Wesson was new, hadn't been his choice of weapons, and felt awkward in his hand, it was easy enough to bury a couple of shots at close range into the soft flesh of the nurse's throat. As she flopped to the floor like a rag doll, ruby showers fountaining from her, Krycek said, "I'm sending the devil back to hell." 

It was easy, all too easy to push the helpless, not even struggling wraith to the top of the long, straight stairs, then push him over it and watch in satisfaction as that desiccated husk flopped and twisted from step to step, finally coming to rest on the landing with a still, lifeless thud. Krycek walked down the stairs, stepping over cancer man, not even stopping to check to see if he was dead. 

A few steps away though, he turned back. Seeing that he still held the Smith and Wesson in his hand, he pulled the trigger and unloaded a couple of rounds into Spender's body, as if that could somehow suffice for having the final word. As if it would be adequate revenge for the unasked for occupant that had been foisted on his body. 

* * *

Doggett tried to lie still, to force himself to relax even as he wanted to beat himself to a bloody pulp over this. Because if he'd listened. If he'd taken the medical advice he'd been given, to slow down, to get more rest, probably he wouldn't be in this situation. He'd endangered his daughter, knowingly, through his bullheadedness and even if no one else would ever accuse him of that, he'd know. And he could never forgive himself. 

He brooded, staring at his belly, willing his daughter to start moving again. Other doctors had been in, an emergency room resident, and listened to his belly with an ice-cold doptone. "I hear a good clear heartbeat," the young woman had announced. "That's a good sign. Did you want to hear?" 

And so he'd listened, just to reassure himself that she was still alive. But the resident didn't give him any more encouragement than that and eventually, she disappeared again, after telling him that he'd soon be taken to another room for an ultrasound. 

He was waiting for that and brooding when Dr. Koskiusko stepped through the curtains into the cubicle. He'd obviously come from home, dressed for the first time that Doggett had ever seen in casual clothes, with no tie, just the usual white jacket pulled hastily over a t-shirt and jeans. 

"John, I came as soon as they reached me," he said. "I understand that you didn't want them to contact me, that you're refusing treatment from me. As unwise as I believe it to be, especially at this moment, that's your right, but I'm hoping we can discuss it. I'm hoping it's not because of the hardline I took earlier today." 

Doggett hadn't anticipated this, that Koskiusko would come to him and demand to know why he was being fired. And he didn't know what to say to the doctor. 

"No, it's not that," Doggett said. "If anything, I wish you'd been harder on me, that you'd hammered home how much of an idiot I was being." 

Koskiusko's silence was an implied, 'then, why?' 

Doggett thought carefully about how to ask this. About how to broach the subject without making himself seem paranoid. 

"What do you know about a Dr. Lev?" he asked finally. "How do you know him?" 

"John, I don't think that there is a practicing androcologist in this country that I don't know in some way or another," Koskiusko said. "There's not many of us. I know Dr. Lev more by reputation than personally. Why do you ask? What does this have to do with your decision to leave my practice?" 

"At some point recently, there was a man you saw as a patient. You probably did not see him by his actual name. You refused an abortion to him because his pregnancy was too advanced, but you gave him a referral to Dr. Lev. This man is an FBI..." 

Here Doggett had to pause. Krycek was, without a doubt, gone. But what was the man, beyond the obvious answer of an enigma. He hadn't been ever truly under arrest, had he? 

"Informant," Doggett decided finally. "And from my work with him, I have reason to believe that among other things, Dr. Lev was conducting illegal research on fetal cells. Possibly worse." 

The look of horror on Dr. Koskiusko's face was genuine. Doggett had been a cop for too long to be fooled that way. His gut instinct was to believe immediately that Koskiusko didn't know the first thing about Lev and the gristly fetuses in glass. 

"I...I hardly know how to respond," Koskiusko said. For the first time, the faintly superior arrogance that seemed to endemic to the whole class of highly trained doctors had vanished from his face. "You have to understand that your informant threatened violence against himself when I refused to do the procedure and Dr. Lev is one of the few androcologists I know of in the country who will perform an abortion almost right up to full term. You're afraid that I'm somehow involved in this research of his? I don't know what to say." 

He might regret this. He might be making a mistake here. But his cop instincts were telling him he wasn't. 

"Just say that you can save my baby," Doggett said. 

* * *

Marita Corvarrubias was lurking outside the block of luxury apartments where Krycek had discovered the smoking man. The bitch had the balls to pull that Lincoln of hers right up in front of him and open the door, as if she'd arranged to pick him up and was just waiting for him to get into the car. 

His hand found his gun again and before he decided consciously to take action, he was standing right in front of her, in the car door, blocking her exit and even her access to the door controls. 

"Tell me why I shouldn't send you to join that black-lunged bastard in hell, where you both belong?" 

"Alex, I know it looks like I betrayed you," she began. "But think about this, I didn't have to arm you. Smoking man told me not to." 

"That's a small, cold comfort, Marita," Krycek said. 

"Get in the car, Alex," she said. "I've discovered something you need to know." 

* * *

Bedrest, total bedrest was the main prescription. For the moment, they weren't even allowing him out of bed to go to the bathroom. His was the indignity of the bedpan and the sponge bath, at least for the moment. And for now, it'd have to be bedrest in the hospital, and all the irritations concurrent with that- being woken constantly for them to take blood, his temperature, his blood pressure. The only consolation was that they assured him that his blood pressure was slowly dropping, not to normal levels, but at least to less dangerous ones. 

As soon as he'd been settled into a regular hospital room, Laurel appeared, furious in that "I yell because I care" kind of way she had. 

"Your medical leave starts right this instant," she said, even before she said hello. "Effective until they tell me you're starting your family leave time after the birth of your baby. I hear about you getting out of this bed without triple signed permission, I'm going to kick your ass but good." 

"Understood, ma'am," he said. 

"I brought something for you," she said. "I heard from the doctor it would be okay. In fact, he suggested it." 

She unslung a black shoulder bag and laid it on the bed. She unzipped the biggest compartment and pulled out his laptop computer. 

"Thank you, Laurel," he said, truly grateful. This would be a lifesaver if he was going to be tied down like this for the long haul. Actually, he hoped it was for a long haul. The way they were talking, they were going to try to prolong his pregnancy for as long as possible, but if his blood pressure didn't go down soon, they'd have to deliver his baby immediately. 

His second visitor was a little less welcome. It was Kerry again. He'd disappeared sometime after Koskiusko had showed up, but he walked in now, wearing clean scrubs and looking exhausted, his short salt and pepper hair standing straight up in little spikes in spots and smushed down flat in others as if it'd gotten really sweaty then dried funny. 

"I was called away for a delivery," he said as he let himself into the room and took a seat wearily, and without permission. "It was supposed to be a home birth, but the woman's labor wasn't making any progress after six hours, so the midwife finally decided to transport. We ended up having to take the baby c-section. They're both fine." 

"You don't have to do this," Doggett said. "In fact, I don't want you to. I want you to just walk away, pretend you never recognized me." 

"I can't, John," Kerry said. "I couldn't live with myself, because I would know. I'm a man who lives up to my responsibilities. Even if you don't ever want to talk to me again, I will do what's right. I will pay child support. That's my right and responsibility." 

"Don't talk to me about your rights," Doggett said. "And nobody but me has responsibility for this little girl." 

"But you said yourself. I'm her father," Kerry said. 

"I'm her father," Doggett said, starting to feel the anger rise to the surface, like bubbles on a pot of water that's just about to break into a boil. He tried to remain calm though, thinking about the negative consequences otherwise. "You're fifteen minutes in the backroom of some club and a broken condom. I'm assuming you actually used the one I saw you put on." 

"It broke," Kerry said, shaking his head. "And I was ashamed that I'd behaved so badly. I went back there, all the time, just because I hoped I could see you again, but I never did. I hoped I could make you understand that I'm not like that all the time. I was out of my head that night. You see, it was the tenth anniversary of my son's death. He would have been sixteen. He died in a car crash. His mother, my ex-wife, took him to her parents so they could see his costume and on the way back, a drunk driver hit them. It's a hard holiday for me." 

Suddenly, Doggett could see beyond the handsome facade and into the man himself. From that moment, he could no longer just think of the man as an inconvient sperm donor, or a chance encounter. This was a man who'd known the same tragedies as he had and was just as human, just as grieving. 

"I had a son," Doggett said, softly. "He was killed some years back. That's the only reason I went out. All the kids in their costumes were really getting to me." 

Thinking about Luke's death made him think again about just what it was he was doing here. Why he was confined to this bed. And Kerry must have realized this. 

"John," he said. "The possibilities are scary, but I've managed this condition in many, many women, and most of them and their babies survive it, even when it happens this early. Babies born as early as the twenty-third week and as small as nine ounces have survived. You're at twenty-six weeks, and with luck, your baby might weigh as much as a pound and a quarter by now. I'm sure Koskiusko is going to be working with the best perinatologists and neonatologists he can find. And if you allow me, I'll be by your side, making sure you and our baby get the best care that's out there." 

"I don't know," Doggett said, suddenly feeling crowded by this guy just showing up and demanding his part of this. When it was Mulder that should be here. Where was Mulder anyway? Doggett had tried his phone multiple times since he'd gotten to his room and there'd been no answer. 

"I know. I'm sorry. I just wish I were your lover, that my part in this wouldn't be questioned." 

"That's just the way it is," Doggett said. Maybe if he'd met the guy under another set of circumstances, it might be different. Maybe it would be possible for him to learn to like the guy, or even, in an extreme possibility learn to love the guy, but for the moment, there was very little in the world that Doggett wouldn't have given to have it be Mulder sitting in that chair by his bed, and not the man who had become the other father of his baby by accident and happenstance. 

* * *

Monica surveyed the compound, or rather, what was left of, from the top of the hill looking down onto a sere landscape of windswept rises and stubby, stunted trees. She'd gotten the call from Brad a few days ago, asking if she could come and do a consultation for what he had called a "situation." Waco had been a "situation" too, she thought. The compound had been occupied by members of an apocalyptic cult. "They believe little green men are coming in flying saucers to kill us all," another agent had said to her when she first arrived in at the compound site in Montana. The agent's voice had been somewhere between a sneer and a snigger. 

She took one last pull from the cigarette that she'd been savoring. Despite herself, she'd found herself reaching for a packet of them one day. She was going to quit again. Just not quite yet. For now though, she pulled hot smoke into her lungs, an oddly soothing exercise, even as she knew intellectually about the tar and other toxins seeping into the delicate pink tissue, turning them black. Even though she knew about the cancer and the emphysema. Soon her heart would beat a little faster and it seemed that the clockworks of her brain would spin a little smoother. And her "feelings" became less subtle and more clear. Perhaps that was just perception or just the placebo effect, but craving that was why, even more the rituals and habits and addictions of it, she had returned to smoking. At least for a while. It was a filthy habit though, she thought as she contemplated what she was going to do with the remainders of her smoke. With the area in near drought conditions, she couldn't just drop it in the field, to risk starting a wild fire. She walked a few paces and found an outcropping of rock. She dropped the butt on the rock, then stubbed it out with her heel. Then, once she was sure it was out, she picked it up, and not sure what else to do with it, stuck it inside an empty packet of nicotine gum she had riding around in her coat pocket still. 

Now with no more excuses, she'd have to go down and see what combined damage the ATF and FBI had wrought here. She was tired though. She'd spent the last few days, which felt like a century by now, arguing for negotiation and sense, and been mostly ignored. They'd brought her up, supposedly because she was an expert in cults, but they'd not listened to a single thing she said. And now people who had seemed to her to have so little protection left in the world, who were the victims instead of the real criminals here, had had what little they had left trampled and torn from them. Ten of them had died in a foolhardy, brave stand when the tactical units had stormed the compound. All of them were in custody, the few kids already transferred to the care of state social workers. Monica wanted to turn around, to go back to where her rental car waited for her. 

Instead, she walked down the hill, to the big space in the middle of the buildings. The dining hall, which had caught fire, was still smoldering, letting up the occasional puff of white smoke. Other buildings circling the square were more or less intact, their flimsy metal walls still standing, only their doors hanging open or smashed in. A ghostly drum quartet played an unsyncopated composition for doors banging against walls. The storage shed's door hung on one hinge only. A group of cult members had been rounded up in the middle of all of this, and they were being prepared for transport, already clapped into handcuffs. Not sure why, she ducked into a narrow alley between an old looking quonset hut and a newer pole barn, wanting to watch the proceedings. 

One of the prisoners, a white haired, older man, standing at the back of the group, was in the middle of having handcuffs put on or adjusted perhaps when there was a scuffle at the front of the group. One of the other prisoners shoved one of his fellows at a guard and then started to run. For a moment, the older man was left alone. He must not have realized that anyone was watching him. Or perhaps he knew and wanted Monica to see. But he changed. 

Like his face melted then rearranged itself smoothly, so quickly that she almost didn't believe in what she was seeing. He changed himself into the ATF agent who had been adjusting his cuffs. And then he just walked away from the group. No one seemed to notice he was gone for a moment, and by the time they must have noticed it, he was gone, walking away towards the exit of the camp. Monica slipped out of the alley where she'd observed him and followed him as quickly as she could. 

* * *

His next visitor was Koskiusko, who nodded grimly when Doggett looked up, but did not take a seat. 

"You're lucky you're alive," he said. "Your blood pressure had risen to 230 over 180 when the EMTs reached you. We've gotten that down to 160 over 120, but that's still high enough to be of grave concern. How do you feel, John?" 

Doggett had to think about that for a moment. He still felt fuzzy headed. "My chest and abdomen hurt sort of," he said. "A dull ache. I feel dizzy and weak. Head hurts." 

"Those are very typical symptoms of severe preeclampsia," Kosiusko said. "We have you on magnesium sulfate which is the most effective treatment we have to stop the seizures and on hydralazine to reduce your blood pressure. But the only cure we have is to deliver your baby." 

"There's no way she'd survive," John protested. She was twenty-six weeks, and probably so small inside him that he'd be able to cradle her in a single hand. 

"It's not impossible for her to survive, in the care of a skilled team of neonatologists," Koskiusko said, not sounding particularly reassuring to Doggett. "Babies born earlier and smaller than her have grown up to be completely happy, healthy adults. But we're going to extend your pregnancy for as long as we possibly can. Even a few more weeks can make a significant difference in her chances. If we can have some time to give you steroids to help her develop her lungs and get her to about a pound and a half, then her survival might be 90 percent or better." 

"The longer we can sustain your pregnancy, the better chance your daughter has. But we'll be monitoring you both for any sign of distress. The instant your baby shows distress, or your condition starts worsening, we'll have to deliver her. We may have time for an induced delivery, though it may be an emergency c-section." 

Doggett nodded numbly, wondering how a baby as small as his was could possibly survive outside of him. Or could it be they were just giving him false reassurance that she might make it, just to make him not so hopeless. 

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Koskiusko spoke again, gravely and sympathetically. "You're probably blaming yourself, thinking maybe if you'd taken it easy, or if you hadn't missed your appointment, or any number of things, that this wouldn't be happening. And while you did ignore some early warning signs, and while mild preeclampsia can mostly be managed by bedrest, this is not your fault. Preeclampsia this sudden and severe couldn't be anticipated, especially not this early in your pregnancy. It seems to have a genetic component, a family tendency to it. Remember that. It's not your fault." 

Doggett really wished he could believe that. 

Barbara arrived a few hours later, carrying a bouquet of flowers and a packed overnight bag. 

"I came straight from the airport," she said. "I left as soon as I was called." 

"You didn't have to come," he said. The last thing he was expecting was to have to face her calm, collected demeanor in the face of this. She was still beautiful, he thought. Blonde and willowy, exactly the sort of woman a man was supposed to want. Again, if things had only been different. If he had ever been really in love with her, or if what he had felt for her had been strong enough. He still remembered holding her delicate, feminine body in his arms and how strong and huge that had made him feel, as if it would possible to crush her if he didn't watch his strength. He wondered if it was possible for him to ever do something like that again, or if he could only be moved now by the hard muscles and equal strength of men, in particular by Mulder's graceful body, which Doggett never had to hold himself back with. Mulder could take any force of passion that Doggett had and would only want more. 

But this woman had been his wife, once, and they'd known each other intimately, had done the most intimate thing possible- make a child, not just have sex to conceive it, but had brought him up into the world and raised him together. But in many ways, it was really the only intimacy they had shared. 

"I didn't think you'd come," he said. "I just thought you should know because I don't think I ever updated my will and it's possible I won't make it." 

"John, do you remember when I was pregnant with Luke and they put me on bedrest. How you immediately changed to the night shift, and you spent all day waiting on me hand and foot. You kept me so busy with games and reading to me and everything that I hardly had time to worry about why I was on bedrest. It's time I returned the favor." 

"You don't have to," he said again. That had been years ago and he hadn't really thought of it. At the time, it was what needed to be done. She'd been his wife then. She wasn't now. 

"I do," she said. "Let me get a vase for these flowers." 

Then she bustled around, finally setting up the bouquet of yellow roses on the table beside his bed. After a while of this, she settled herself down in a chair and curled herself up, as if planning to get a little snooze in. 

"I called your mother to let her know what's happening," she said, sleepily, voice soft and drifting. "You know, I always told you she was a bitch. I'm not going to tell you what she said, but let's just say that with an attitude like hers, you're better off with her not coming." 

"Barb?" he asked. "Why?" 

"Is she such a bitch? God knows." 

"No, why are you doing this for me? You don't even like me anymore, much less love me enough to drop everything late at night and come down from New York to sleep in a chair in a hospital room." 

"Oh," she said. "Sure enough, I spent a long time not liking you at all. And I am not in love with you, for sure. You broke my heart, John. But I will always love you and care for you. We were married seven years. That still means something to me. You called, so you must really have no one else. So I came." 

Skinner came in during the early morning hours. Doggett knew immediately that something was wrong. He gave Barb a significant look and she immediately excused herself and left them alone. One look on Skinner's troubled face told the story. Something had happened to Mulder. He was dead. Doggett was sure of it. That was the only explanation for the glisten in Skinner's eyes that seemed about to break into actual tears in any moment. For the visible knots in the corner of the man's jaw. For the hesitation. 

"It's preeclampsia, sir," Doggett said when it appeared that Skinner wasn't going to talk. "Pregnancy induced hypertension. They may have to take my daughter early. Where's Mulder, sir?" 

"I'm sorry," Skinner said, his voice painfully tight. And those tears that Doggett had seen the potential of finally gathered and lost their battle with gravity. Two streams dripped from Skinner's eyes down his cheeks. Skinner didn't wipe them away or even seem conscious of them. "I lost him." 

What, exactly did Skinner mean, lost? Doggett wasn't sure what was worse, the churning agony of anticipating the bad news or the shot to the gut of receiving the actual news. On top of everything else that was happening, he just couldn't even speak. They shared a few awkward moments of pained silence, then Skinner spoke up again. 

"I have seen things I cannot deny," he said. "But I will find him for you, John. 

Just after Skinner finally left, Doggett's final visitor winked into existence, suddenly standing at the foot of the bed, where a moment ago had been nothing but air. He was wearing a yellow golf shirt this time and yellow and blue plaid pants. The genie. Doggett suddenly remembered everything- the wishes, the one he was still owed. He even remembered, though distantly this time, the world as it was when men did not, nor would not ever get pregnant, and the fact that the genie had changed that whole reality just for his benefit. 

"Any thoughts yet about your last wish?" Gene asked. 

"Well, it seems like you're about to renege on my first wish," Doggett said accusatorily. 

"Patience," Gene said. "No one promised you an easy time, but you will get your wish. That's the deal. You made it, you get it. You know, I like you Doggett. You're not some idiot who decides what he really wants is to be invisible so he can sneak into the lady's room, but he ends up getting hit by a truck when he crosses the street. You're smart. But enough thinking about it already and make your wish." 

"I don't know," he said. His first two wishes had been easy. He'd hardly thought about them and maybe that was a better idea than thinking too hard about it. 

He could wish this preeclampsia away, wish for a normal pregnancy, but something in him warning against that. He thought about Mulder and Skinner's story. Mulder taken away in a UFO supposedly, but gone by any measure of the game, with no clue where he'd been taken to or when or even if he'd be coming back. 

"I want Mulder," he said, the words coming to his lips as he thought about kissing Mulder. About how perfect the mornings had been when Mulder slept there, and Doggett had woken to the sight of Mulder sprawled across the bed, face peaceful, almost innocent looking in sleep. And he knew he had to have that in his life. He'd already been promised his baby, hadn't he? He clarified because he knew that whatever he said might be misinterpreted. "I want Mulder in my life, as my baby's daddy. As my lover, no, my husband. As the man I share every experience with. I want him there to take turns changing diapers at three AM and to see our daughter grow up and get married and find a love of her own." 

"Are you sure about that?" Gene asked. Suddenly, Doggett realized that Gene wasn't standing on the floor any more, but floating about three feet above it, legs crossed under him. "You know, I'm not supposed to warn you about your wishes. But like I said, I like you, John Doggett. Look, I think you'd be a lot more comfortable forgetting about Fox Mulder. Open your heart to the nice ob-gyn. You already like him." 

Doggett had to admit, that despite himself, he did like his baby's other father. But that was apropos of nothing. 

"Or Dennis," Gene said. "He'd get over his little kink soon enough. He'd be on his way in the blink of an eye if you just call him." 

That was probably true, but as far as Doggett was concerned, Dennis had his chance and everything between them had been put to rest. 

"Why?" Doggett asked. "I love Mulder. I don't love Dennis or Daniel." 

"Because you say you want Mulder in your life," Gene said. "But with some people, there are circumstances in their life such that they can't leave their lives to join someone else's. Mulder is like that. You want him, you'll have to be thrust into his world. You're just tiptoeing on the edges of it every now and then, and whenever you take a peek inside of it, what you see frightens you. One thing's for sure, Doggett, you're a man that hates being afraid. But if you want him, you'll have to face that." 

"Join his world. Like what? Believe that little green men from a flying saucer abducted my boyfriend?" he asked. 

"Well, that's a good place to start," Gene said. Then he unfolded his legs from underneath him and achieved a more or less standing position, though his feet still didn't touch the ground. As he did this though, he grimaced at each step of the procedure and pressed a hand against his back. "You'd think being a genie might mean a guy didn't have sciatica. This Aladdin act ain't all it's cracked up to be, that's for sure." 

"Whatever it takes," Doggett said, certain he could face down whatever demons this stirred up. Because being here in a hospital bed, with one's baby at such high risk seemed to clarify everything to its essential levels- what he needed in his life, what he wanted, what he wouldn't settle for. "If that's the wish I need to make, then I want my baby and me to be in Mulder's life." 

"Granted," Gene said, then disappeared. 

* * *


	2. Too Blunt An Instrument

Marita, as usual, was tightlipped, no more forthcoming that she had to be. They drove into the night, into the depths of Virginia. They followed dark state highways through the mountains, their lights the only ones to cut through the thick darkness, so it seemed. The tires rolling against the pavement were the only things making any noise. She hardly spoke at all until he demanded, about three hours into the trip and not able to take it any longer, "What is this all about, Marita? What is so important that I'm wasting valuable time I could spend searching for a doctor I can trust to take a ride out into the country?" 

"Your child is a weapon, Alex," Marita said. "A prototype hybrid of a kind of alien replicant that is starting to infiltrate the earth's governments, one more powerful and perfect than any of the hybrids have been before." 

"That makes it more important than ever that I kill this fetus before it's born," Krycek said. Resist or serve, he'd always said, and never been in any doubt about which one he was doing. "I will not allow myself to be just a vessel for them to create a weapon to be used against us." 

"Alex," Marita said, softly. "Who the weapon is used against depends on who is holding it." 

* * *

Jeremiah Smith walked away from the compound aware that he was being followed. He observed his follower with no small curiosity. She'd noticed him changing his appearance. Not only had she been watching at the crucial time, when he was sure that everyone else's attention was elsewhere. He'd always been impeccable at his timing of that. But she had seen. And she had not convinced herself that she hadn't seen what she'd seen, that her imagination had gotten carried away. Nor was she afraid of him, like so many where once they'd realized that there was something that was more than human about him. Her mind was so open and clear to him. He could read human minds though usually they were a welter of confusion and conflicting emotions and motives, sort of the closest thing that a human had as a natural defense against alien mindreaders. It was hard for him to comprehend what humans were all about, even as he valued them for their complexity, the very thing that made it hard for him to understand them. 

This one though, was different. She was a sort of natural sensitive, one without much conscious control or even perception of her powers. The only such human stronger than her that he'd come across was one who was not totally human- Fox Mulder, who owed his sensitivities to his alien heritage. Jeremiah Smith casually skimmed through the surface of her mind, much like a human might skim a magazine while waiting at the doctors office. Quickly though, he grew more interested, much more interested. She knew Fox Mulder, she was thinking about the man right now, and she worried about Fox Mulder's lover, a man named John Doggett. She thought about John Doggett would probably think her foolish for following something that might just be her imagination. She worried because she'd been calling him on and off both last night and this early morning and failed to reach him. Yes, she might be a useful human to have around. She would eventually be able to contact Mulder, perhaps through her friend John Doggett. 

He slowed down to allow her to catch up to her. They stood in the middle of the woods now. The branches were mostly bare, with tiny explosions of green about to happen. The wind whipped the sparse branches around and howled through the treetops. He heard her continue to approach and when she was a few yards away, he turned, allowing his face to drift back to his usual face, the one he troped to naturally when circumstance required that he look human, but not a specific human. He turned to face her. She'd closed the distance between them and stood still, with her weapon drawn and pointed at him, those ineffectual little metal machines. He knew that the bullets would tear through him, releasing a toxin that was far more harmful to her than her little balls of metal were to him. She held the weapon with confidence though, her faith in its ability to protect her touching in its simplicity. 

"You were under arrest," she cracked. "I think we ought to make that so again." 

"Monica Reyes," he said. "I need you to take me to John Doggett." 

Her eyes widened a little, but to her credit, she nodded and asked simply, "Why?" 

"It will become clear in the course of time," he told her. 

* * *

He'd been talking with Barb about how unprepared he was to have this baby making an appearance into the world much sooner than he'd expected. Then suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen, like someone was plunging a knife through it, from the inside out. He didn't even have to tell Barb something was wrong. She read it on his face and hurried out of the room, calling for the nurse. One of the many monitors that they had him tied up too began to beep an alarm. An nurse rushed into the room to check on him, Barb at her heels. One look at the vitals showing on his monitors and the nurse called out, "Someone page the doctor. We've got severe fetal distress." 

It seemed to take forever for a white-coated young woman to come in and take one look at him. She seemed unsure and exhausted already, was almost certainly an on-call resident. She said to the nurse, "Prep him for a c-section and call Dr Koskiusko and Dr. Kerry immediately." 

He swore he could feel his blood pressure go up, like his body itself getting tighter, his abdomen growing hard, as if it might burst, his head floating, and then that puppeteer that had been playing his body earlier taking over again. Then suddenly, he was watching the situation from outside of himself, floating over his body. Was he dying, he wondered with total detachment. 

"He's going into eclamptic seizures again. How much can we up the magnesium?" someone asked. 

"Not much. Toxicity from it is as bad as the seizures," someone else answered. 

Kerry must have been in the building still, because short minutes later, he ran back into the room. He looked first, not to Doggett, or rather Doggett's body as it seized, jerking spasmodically like some manic rag doll, but to the fetal monitor, and its electronic line, the regularly pulsing representation of his daughter's heartbeat. Above that monitor was one that measured Doggett's heartbeat, slower than the child's but still seeming to be connected somehow. To the OB, he would be able to read every condition of the womb and child by that representation, its gyrations meaningful to him. As he looked at it now, he grew tense, nervous. He looked back at Doggett briefly, then past him to the resident. "You have to take the child now," he said, "There isn't time to waste." He looked back to the fetal monitor as its line collapsed to flatness. He gasped, finally saying. "No, oh, God, no. No." 

* * *

The suddenness of it all shocked her beyond all else. Yes, John had seemed ill, but just a few minutes ago he'd been happily talking with her about the baby and how he hadn't even bought a car seat yet, not that would have mattered because probably the baby wouldn't be coming home from the hospital for months. Then she'd seen the sheer pain rip across his face, distorting it, scaring her. He'd just grunted and gritted his jaw, but she knew him well enough to understand how much agony he was in. She'd gone to get the nurse and then suddenly, the room had been filled with medical professionals. She'd done the most helpful thing she could and got out of their way. 

She was still waiting in the hallway fifteen minutes later. She thought they would have wheeled John out to take him for the c-section, but they never did. She was about to peek into the room and see what was happening, when an exceedingly tall man stepped out of the room. His name tag identified him as Dr. Daniel Kerry, in obstetrics. He was a devastated man, his eyes defeated and hollow with shock. 

"Dr," she said. "What just happened? I thought they were taking him for a c-section, but they haven't rolled him out. Shouldn't they have rushed him to surgery?" 

"Are you a family member?" he asked her. 

"I guess I am. I'm sorry, I'm Barbara. I'm John's ex-wife," she explained. "He doesn't have much other family. He's estranged from his mother. There's a lover, some kind of boyfriend, but he's not around. He's an agent at the FBI as well and he recently disappeared while working on a case. So I'm it, it seems." 

"His baby died, in utero. Now we're working on saving him," the doctor said. "We're working on stabilizing his blood pressure. We've started a pitocin drip to induce labor and ruptured his membranes. He should be ready to deliver in a few hours." 

She was horrifed at the thought. "You mean he has to labor and deliver a dead baby? Can't you just take it c-section?" 

"I know it seems hardly fair. An awful prospect. But his prognosis for recovery is better if has the baby by delivery rather than c-section. I'm sorry. Oh, God, I'm so sorry," he said. 

* * *

"You're worried about Agent Doggett," Smith said to her. He was eerily expressionless, both in face and in voice, but she could find little else about him alarming. In fact, she found being in his presence oddly comforting. 

"I am," she said. "I haven't been able to reach him. And I have a bad feeling about things." 

At this point, they'd gotten into her rental car and she was driving them down the long, rolling highway. Right now they were crossing a short-grass prairie that seemed to extend for as far as the eye could see. The brown grass undulated in the wind, making the prairie look like some kind of ocean, with waves that seemed to be almost burnished gold colored. They were heading into Missoula, to the airport. 

"I'm going to try one more thing," she said. Then she dialed the number, not of John, but of Agent Scully, hoping that if something was wrong, that maybe Dana might know it. 

The phone picked up in a few rings and Dana answered. Her greeting sounded odd, flat, as if she were in some kind of shock 

"Dana, this is Monica," she said. "I'm just wondering if you've heard from Agent Doggett recently. I haven't been able to reach him or Agent Mulder." 

Dana was silent for a long time, almost half a minute. She made a little choking noise at first, but then she said, "Assistant Director Skinner is with me. I think he had better tell you the news." 

Another silence as the phone was transferred, then a strong, low voice was on the line, asking, "Agent Reyes?" 

"Sir," she said. To be passed over to the AD had alarmed her, seeming to indicate the severity of this situation. That, and Scully's suppressed sob were making it clear that a tragedy might be in the middle of unfolding. "What's happening? Is something wrong with John?" 

"He's a very sick man, Agent Reyes," Skinner said. "He's in the hospital with preeclampsia, severe pregnancy induced hypertension. He and the baby might not make it." 

"How's Agent Mulder taking it?" Reyes asked. 

"Agent Mulder..." Skinner started. His voice kind of crumpled in on itself for a moment, catching in his throat, as if what he was saying had lots of barbed hooks. But Skinner rallied, though even over the bad connection of the cell phone, you could hear the effort it took for him to simply speak. "Agent Mulder was abducted last night just outside Bellefleur, Oregon." 

"Sir?" she asked. Abducted? "By who?" 

There was no answer. Skinner's strong, stoic act was failing him again. 

"Sir, if there's anything I can do to help, I'm on my way to Washington now," she said. "I'm with a man named Jeremiah Smith. He's asked me to bring him to Agent Doggett. I'm not sure I should." 

"You said Jeremiah Smith?" Skinner asked. 

"Yes, sir," she said. "The FBI just raided a small compound in Montana. He was present. He approached me after the raid." 

"Do you know what he wants with Agent Doggett?" Skinner asked. 

"I don't know, sir," she said. "I don't believe he means to harm him." 

"If that really is Jeremiah Smith you're with, then, no, he doesn't. In fact, you should bring him to Agent Doggett as soon as possible." 

"I'll do that, sir," she said. "I should be in Washington in a few hours. I'll call you then." 

* * *

They'd let her back into the room a short while later. Dr. Kerry followed her in. John's face was so pale and drawn tight that she gasped. He was still, far too still for someone supposedly in labor. His eyes were open, but glassy. He seemed unaware of his surroundings. 

"He's stopped seizing, thankfully," Dr. Kerry said. "But we had to hit him hard with a combination of drugs. He's probably pretty out of it. But having someone he knows and trusts by his side will make this easier. I don't know if you've ever been a labor coach before, but he could use someone right now." 

"You're not here because you're a doctor," she said, suddenly realizing this. "You know John somehow." 

"Not well," Kerry admitted. He was obviously ashamed about something. "I'm the other father of his daughter, but we were never in any kind of relationship. He never wanted anything to do with me. We didn't even really know each other when he conceived." 

"I'm sorry," she said, trying to sound sympathetic, even as she was suddenly, unexpectedly jealous of the man. Tell your heart anything you want. Explain logically to it all the very, very good reasons she and John were no longer married. Vow to think only with one's head and not with one's heart. None of that mattered when you were confronted with the mate of someone you were once married to. Yes, a large part of her heart still believed that no one in the universe except her should be making children with John. In so many ways, you couldn't just stop loving someone. "So you lost a child too just now. I'm sorry. I know what it's like to lose a child." 

"Yeah," he said, then turned away, as if he were intently studying the monitor he was facing. But she saw him brush at his face. 

As she moved to take John's hand, three men, one carrying a baby in a car seat carrier, appeared in the door to the room. The one carrying the baby was all buttoned up into a suit and tie, and obviously flushed with pride, and every moment, casting down small, besotten looks at the occupant of the baby carrier. The baby was so small as to be hardly visible in among the blanket and padding of the car seat, an obvious newborn, but she did catch a glimpse of a tiny pink fist. Standing next to him was a man in t-shirt and jeans. His long blond hair hung stringily down his shoulders. He was obviously exhausted, but he had that certain unmistakeable glow and serenity around him. He'd just given birth to the infant in the carrier, she was sure of it. Standing just behind those two was a short, stubby little man wearing half-gloves and a khaki vest with more pockets than she'd ever seen in one place before. 

"Is this John Doggett's room?" Asked the one in the suit. 

"We were about to leave, but we heard he'd been admitted," said the short one. 

"So we thought we'd stop by to see if there was any way we could help out," said the blond one. "How's he doing?" 

"Not well from the looks of it," said the short one. 

She just stared at them, surprised beyond words at the unusual trio and how casually they seemed to invade the space and take it over. The short one was reaching out to take a look at John's chart, but Dr. Kerry glared at him, so he diverted his reach. 

"We're friends of Agent Doggett's," said the one in the suit. "We know him through Agent Mulder. I'm John Byers, this is Richard Langly and Melvin Frohike. And of course, my newborn son, Harry. Please, let us know if there's anything we can do to help." 

"This isn't a good time for visitors," Barbara said. "John just lost the baby. They're not sure he's going to make it himself." 

* * *

Monica looked at the tall, gray haired man walking beside her as she stepped away from the Lariat rental counter at the DC airport. She had the keys to a rental dangling from her hand. It would be quick, less than an hour, before she could be at John's side. 

As she seated herself behind the wheel of the car, she pulled out her phone and dialed Scully. 

"I'm here in Washington now," Monica said to her. "How's John? Have you heard anything?" 

"The situation is not good," Scully said. "He lost the baby and may not survive himself. He's in critical condition." 

She'd always been sensitive, almost empathic to the emotions of others, and even more so for people she loved. She could remember clearly, even more clearly now than she should have remembered it, the glow of the love John had for his little girl. It had surrounded him whenever she'd been near, like an aura almost. And to think of that gone, of him grieving that, it hurt just to think of it. 

"Take me to him now," Jeremiah Smith said to her. 

As he continued to look at her, she knew suddenly. He was the reason she could remember so well, so clearly as if she were just looking through a window and seeing John. Smith was playing her memories, going through them as if sifting for nuggets of treasure. And somehow, she didn't mind, didn't feel invaded. In fact, she cherished the fact that she could run through those memories with such crystal clarity. 

"Agent Reyes?" Scully said after Monica had been silent, thinking about this all too long. "Are you okay? I know it's a shock. AD Skinner and I are on our way to the hospital to see if there's anything we can do." 

"I'm on my way now," Monica said. She put the car into gear and started driving finally. It seemed as if there were no way possible for her to get there fast enough, much less with her having to follow the laws of gravity and inertia, and the rules of the road. "Jeremiah Smith wants me to bring him to Agent Doggett." 

"Yes, hurry," Scully said. Then she too was quiet for a little while. "But be careful. There are...forces that might be searching for Smith. Hostile, dangerous forces. And if you're in his presence, then you might be in danger as well." 

"Would it be putting John at risk to bring Smith there?" Monica asked, risking a look away from the road to take another stare at Smith. He appeared to be much more like a tax accountant or perhaps a bureaucrat in some government office than anyone who might have people trying to kill him. His appearance was, in every way, utterly unexceptional. He was immediately forgettable. 

"It might," Scully said. "But I think the greater risk at this point is not bringing Smith." 

* * *

As they flew further into the depths of Virginia, Krycek suddenly became convinced that he couldn't trust Marita either, not that he ever really had. She still hadn't answered his questions, only tried to convince him not to kill this baby. 

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded again. "Smoking man couldn't capture me and force me to carry this baby to term. Don't think that you can either. I will find a way and you will find a way to your grave." 

"Alex," she said, soothingly. "I'm taking you to another doctor. This one used to work for the project, but under the direction of the Englishman. He has his reasons for doing exactly as I ask. And he will do the procedure. For obvious reasons, he's been in hiding for several years, but he lives near the Englishman's horse farm now and that's where we're going to meet him." 

Krycek remembered the Englishman well, especially for the way the old bastard could make him feel, like a particularly useful tool, not a human at all, but another cog in the vast machine of the networks of manipulation he maintained. With Spender, one more or less could see the threads that he was pulling on, one tug here, another here, and cut the string if it didn't respond the way he wanted. But with Mannerly, you could hardly make sense of which way the threads connected, much less divine the reason why he might have pulled on that particular thread, then not seemed alarmed if it didn't appear to respond at all. Tangled web could hardly begin to describe the man. Krycek had heard the man was dead, but since he hadn't buried the body himself, he was hardly going to take that as truth. Especially not considering the man. 

"If you're taking me to this doctor, why are you trying to talk me out of this?" Krycek asked, shifting uncomfortably in his car seat. It had been hours since they'd started their drive and they hadn't stopped yet. Krycek wasn't about to admit to the weakness, but he really needed to use the bathroom. His load was really weighing heavily on his bladder. For that matter, he could really do with standing up and walking around, to see if it would relieve his aching back. 

"I'm trying to talk you out of it because I'm convinced that you're making a mistake," Marita said. "Possession of this child could be the single most important thing that has happened for the struggle since the vaccine. Our best, last hope to resist and you're about to throw it away for personal reasons." 

"How can you say that to me? Can you say that you have any idea of what I'm going through?" 

Marita had, with the exception of the time she'd been used as a test subject for the vaccine, had never even so much as had her hair ruffled by her involvement in the project. Not so much as one of her perfect, manicured nails had been broken by it. The only thing reminding him that she was still human was the memory of coming across her in that lab, hand stringy, half dead from the tests she'd been subjected to. 

"Alex," she began. "Like everyone who was taken by the project for testing, I have a small metal chip in the back of my neck. Several months ago, I missed a period. I was worried, not because I thought I might be pregnant. I wasn't worried about that. I've been celibate for years now, since the time you and I...in that ship. I was pregnant. I immediately scheduled a D and C. I had the remains tested and the scientist discovered non-human DNA in them." 

"So tell me why it's no more a mistake for me to do that than it was you?" Alex asked, furious. She claimed to know, but then would refuse him this. 

"Because the other father of your child is Mulder," she said. 

"I know that. Cancer man told me," he said. 

"And because you are no less extraordinary than Mulder in your genetic makeup. Your child together will be even more extraordinary." 

Krycek couldn't disagree with that. But it didn't mean he was going to have anything to do with bringing this supposed paragon into the world 

* * *

John knew two things at the moment- that he was in greater pain than he'd ever been in before, and that his baby was dead. These two things seemed to have something to do with each other. 

As another contraction tore through him, wrenching his body from some place deep inside, that he couldn't have even imagined having, much less it causing him that much agony, he flashed on another in just as much pain. He could see Mulder splayed out on some kind of table, bound by spikes through his wrist, with some kind of saw descending through his chest. Mulder was screaming and that somehow made it alright for Doggett to scream, as if it could release both his and Mulder's agony. Blood, there was blood everywhere, spattering from Mulder's chest, pooling on the floor. Doggett was more with Mulder than here with his body, yet he heard and felt what was going on with his own body, as if he were separated from it in another room. Like he was floating above it. 

He was bleeding. No one had noticed the hemorrhaging yet. It was soaking into the sheets and mattress at the moment, but he knew he would die from it soon. It was only a portion of the bleeding. Most hadn't yet escaped his body. He was bleeding internally at a massive rate and it was almost certain that he'd die himself, very soon. He didn't care. He needed to be with Mulder. And his baby had died. There was no reason for him to care about anything that was going on in this room at this moment, even though he did look at the father of his baby with some regret. Daniel Kerry wasn't such a bad person, Doggett could see from the perspective of floating above the whole scene. No, Kerry's only sin was that he was no Fox Mulder, but then who was? 

Mulder... 

Somehow through all of this, he could feel Mulder's pain- a death agony. He could see him somehow, in a way that didn't have anything to do with his eyes, nor with any sense that he could quantify, put a name to, even understand. But he knew this much, Mulder was dying too. Mulder was being tortured to death by persons who could only be inhuman. 

There was nothing to keep him here, so he didn't struggle as he felt himself slipping. The darkness would be welcome. Any remission of this agony. 

"Oh, my, God," someone cried out. He vaguely recognized her as Barbara. "He's bleeding. Call the doctor." 

Doggett looked down to see that the red had soaked through the sheets and was now dripping onto the floor even, small but steady flows of ruby red fluid. The hospital room was unearthly quiet except for the hushed sound of those streams hitting the floor. At that moment, Monica walked into the room, a stranger at her side. 

* * *

The curtain had been pulled, concealing John, but Monica pulled it away, buoyed by some confidence that had to have been borrowed from something outside of her. John was surrounded by medical professionals, all in blue or green scrubs, all busily working. Someone was hooking John up to a pint of blood. Inside the plastic bag, the blood was strangely dark and opaque, but the line that immediately flowed from it through the clear plastic tubing into John's arm was lighter. John himself was so pale he was almost blue. A nurse broke away from the team that was attending John. "You'll have to leave," she said, brusquely. 

"No," Monica said. "We must see him." 

Jeremiah Smith didn't wait for permission, or let the openly hostile stares of the doctors stop him. He stepped up to the side of the hospital bed and laid his hands on John. 

* * *

"You're dying," a voice said to him. It was a voice that was more in his head, more direct that any of the voices in the room that he seemed to be hearing so distantly, as if through a blanket and across the room. This voice was direct into his head, distinct and unmistakably strange. 

And why shouldn't he? "My baby's dead," Doggett said. 

"No," said the voice. "Cellular death hasn't yet commenced. It's not too late." 

Then it felt like nothing else he'd ever felt before. Like something touching the inside of each and every cell. Water flooding into him. Electricity, but not shocking. A golden light that he couldn't see, but nevertheless filled the whole room. 

And he was back in his body again suddenly. He opened his eyes and happened to look up at the monitors just in time to see the flat line of the fetal monitor suddenly spike, then settle down into a regular, rapid rhythm. There was no pain in his abdomen any more, nor anywhere else. 

And then he felt the kick, not a hard one, but just an indescribably blissful contact from the inside. Just his little girl letting him know that she was still there, that she hadn't given up the fight. 

A doctor, a young looking resident, had been about to inject him with something, but when he opened his eyes, she had paused and now still hovered, needle not quite touching his skin. Now he moved, trying to sit up and she almost flung it away. He sat up in his hospital bed, looking around, noting with discomfort and disgust that it was very wet underneath him. Monica and the stranger were being hustled out of the room. 

"He was coding," the resident said, wide eyed, as if she hadn't believed what had just happened. "He was..." 

"And now he's not," said a nurse. This nurse was older, with a wise, calm look about her, as if she'd a lot in her life, but not too much. She hustled to work, reading the monitors. "Heartbeat normal, ninety bpm. Blood pressure, 115 over 90. That can't be right. I'll take his blood pressure with the cuff to be sure." 

She left the room and came back with an old fashioned style sphygnomometer, the kind with the bulb to blow it up and the dial on it. "They didn't have anything but this when I was in school," the nurse said as she wrapped the fabric around his upper arm. "I still don't trust anything else, really." 

She started pumping the bulb until the cuff was uncomfortably tight around his arm and it felt like it might throb even, then the pressure was suddenly released. 

"115 over 90," the nurse announced. 

"That's unbelievable," the resident said. "Minutes ago, it was 230 over 150. That couldn't possibly have happened." 

"I've been a nurse for twenty years and I've seen miracles happen all the time," the nurse said. "We should get Mr. Doggett cleaned up and into a clean bed. Dr. Koskiusko should be back soon to examine you." 

No, it hadn't been a miracle. Or perhaps it had, but not of the kind that the nurse was thinking of. It had been the stranger that Monica had brought in that had caused this. 

"I want to see Monica," he said. 

"In a few minutes, Mr. Doggett," the nurse said. "We'll get you cleaned up first. Then there's no reason you can't have visitors once the doctor clears you. Both you and your baby seem just fine." 

It was nearly an hour before he could have a visitor. First Koskiusko examined him in stunned silence, shaking his head the whole time, as if he couldn't believe Doggett's sudden turnaround. They decided they could take the fetal monitor off and that he could stand on his own. Finally, he was allowed into the bathroom on his own to shower off the blood that was starting to dry uncomfortably on his skin. Dressed in a fresh and clean hospital robe, he felt almost human again- well, healthy, just a little tired. The nurse ended up giving him a second gown to wear backwards as a kind of robe, to cover up the fact that it wouldn't stay closed behind, due to his big belly out front. 

"I feel fine," Doggett said to the nurse, as soon as he was clothed in the gowns. "How soon until I get released?" 

* * *

It was over an hour after the miracle until they let her see John. No longer pale like before, he was sitting up in bed impatiently looking around. He smiled slightly when he saw her, though his gaze quickly skimmed off of her and became solemn when he caught sight of Jeremiah Smith who had walked in just behind her. 

Smith was still an enigma to her, so human appearing, but so inhuman. No form of human emotion had crossed his face as he had healed John- no relief, no satisfaction. Nothing but the glacially calm expression that had been his all along, which was enough, had Monica known nothing else, to convince her that this was an alien intelligence. 

And that made her wary. In spite the fact that Smith had acted to preserve John's life, save it when he'd been coding, his heart stopped, saving John's baby as well, she didn't trust Smith. Because his thought processes, and his emotions, if he had any, were so alien and incomprehensible to her, she didn't trust his motivations. He might well have saved John for some even more deadly and nefarious purpose. So, she was grateful to him, but she still made sure she stood between him and John. 

"John," she said. "This is Jeremiah Smith. He asked me to bring him to you. He has something important to say to you." 

"You saved my life. And my baby's," John said. 

To Monica's ears, John had never sounded more bewildered. And yet, also, he was awestruck. Full of wonder. And for the first time ever, there was no doubt, no automatic gainsaying about had just happened. 

"I need your help, John Doggett," Smith said. 

"To do what?" John asked. 

"Your agency has just raided our compound, destroying all our work," Smith said. Monica gulped a little, guiltily wondering if there was anything more she could have done to prevent that debacle. "The invasion is underway and we must do what we can to mitigate it. We can...must save as many as we can. And one of us is gathering proof. As soon as he is ready, with your position, you can bring it to the attention of people with the power to do something about it." 

"Proof?" Monica asked. 

"Of aliens living as citizens of this country," Smith said. 

And John, amazingly enough, did not do the thing she knew he would do. Instead, he said, "What's the first thing I do, once I get out of here? I mean after we rescue Mulder." 

Had something fundamental changed in him? Had his miracle affected more than his state of health? 

* * *

"The last thing any sane person would suggest is that I be a parent," Krycek said. "I'm not fit to care for a kitten, much less a child, human or otherwise." 

"Others can care for the child, Alex," Marita said. 

"And who else could possibly be strong enough to keep such a child safe?" Krycek asked. If this fetus were anything as extraordinary as Marita and the Smoker were telling him, then they would be coming for it. And almost nothing you could do could stop them. Krycek had stayed alive so many years only by guile and by diving for cover at any sign of danger. He was a survivor. But even he knew that you couldn't raise a child like that. Even a childhood as fucked up as his own had its moments of stability. 

"Marita," Krycek said. "You can't raise a baby to be a weapon. It's what the people who raised me tried to do, and I am what happened." 

"I wouldn't think you'd care what happened to this child," Marita said. 

"Why do you say that?" he asked, through suddenly clenched teeth. The assumption twisted at his insides for some reason. Because the Alex Krycek he was right at this moment wasn't a cold blooded killer, but he was a survivor and he was a realist. At other times and needs of his life, he had been that killer, but at this moment, his only concern was sheer survival, no more. 

"Seeing how eager you are to get rid of it, by any means necessary." 

"Killing this fetus now is a far better fate for it than anything that could possibly happen to it in this life," Krycek said. "Better than that they come for it. That it gets used for a weapon. That I raise it and completely screw it up. That someone else raises it and do the same thing. That whoever raises it be so weak that they let these things happen to it. I did not choose to be put in the position of juggling these exigencies, so I choose to end it here." 

"Alex, you do care for this baby," Marita said. She sounded genuinely surprised. 

"Like hell I do," he answered, but he was lying through his teeth. He believed every word he'd said about why it was better this way. But he was glad he could play the hardened killer when it was needful, because any one with a less shriveled conscience than his wouldn't be able to do what needed to be done. Not when they felt like he did about it. 

"The baby does have another parent who could care for it," Marita said. "One who's always been protected. One who is immune to the oil. One who has access to resources you don't." 

"Mulder can hardly keep a tank of fish alive," Krycek said with a sneer. 

* * *

"It's miraculous," Koskiusko pronounced finally. 

They'd done a non-stress test, another ultrasound and more urine tests, as well as keeping him on constant blood pressure monitoring. And so far, all the tests had come back normal or better. No protein in his urine. No sign of high blood pressure. No sign that his baby was under any kind of strain or stress. The only thing was he had to use the bathroom more or less constantly, even more so than he was used to, considering how often his girl chose to kick right down on his bladder. Koskiusko had said that his body seemed to be rapidly throwing off the extra water weight he'd piled on. Koskiusko had estimated thirty or more of the forty pounds Doggett had gained in the last month and a half was water weight. And it all seemed to be going down the toilet. 

"A miracle," Koskiusko said, again. 

"Yes," Doggett said. "It was." 

"And I can't think of any reason to keep you in here a minute longer," Koskiusko said. "I'm signing your release papers. Providing you agree to still take it easy and keep your weekly appointment with me." 

"I can do that," Doggett said. He wasn't taking any chances from this point on. Now that he knew just how bad it could get, he wouldn't, couldn't risk that it might happen again. Jeremiah Smith might not always be around. Even though he had hardly been aware when it was actually happening, the he could still remember, as if it were actually happening, what it had felt like when he realized his baby had died. There had been talk among some of the staff that it was just that monitor had been jostled loose and that when he'd been coding, it had jostled back into place, that the baby hadn't died at all. But Doggett knew that couldn't possibly be so. He'd felt it when she had, in a deep way that had everything to do with knowing deep within and nothing to do with the facts. 

* * *

She'd been intending to escort Smith to the J. Edgar Hoover building, to get a statement out of him. John was just about ready to leave the hospital, but Barbara, John's ex, was hovering pretty close, ready to take over. Monica could see the territorial lines there as obviously as if they'd been drawn with chalk on the pavement. So, Barb was going to take John home, and Monica was going to take care of Smith. 

She was walking with Smith down the hospital hallway, headed for the elevator bank. They hit a slight bottle neck around there, as the floor designers had put the main nurse station right in front of the elevators without sufficient room for either, much less both. They were in the midst of a gaggle of doctors and nurses in blue and green scrubs, with a generous assortment of civilians, probably there visiting patients. This was the OB-gyn floor, so most of the visitors were men. 

Monica's phone rang distracting her attention temporarily from Smith. Even before answering it, she looked up again, expecting to see him. There was no sign of him. An elevator opened its brushed stainless steel doors and a crowd of people rushed in, brushing past each other, a mini-stampede. She scanned the crowd again, then again, hoping to catch sight of someone who might possibly be Smith. Who might not have been standing there a minute ago, but was now. Her search was in vain. He'd used that amazing power he had to change his shape and he'd slipped away, leaving her holding the bag. Meanwhile, her phone was still jangling at her, demanding attention. 

"Yes," she said into it, after she'd flipped the silvery little thing open. 

It was Brad. He greeted her effusively, like he usually did when he was hoping for one of their interludes in a hotel. She smiled a little. It wasn't what she had in mind, considering she had Smith to find and so much more to do, but if it weren't for that, she wouldn't be not inclined. Her time away from Brad had been a real dry spell, and perhaps it was time for a little wet. 

"What can I do for you, Brad?" she asked, her voice slipping into flirtatious even without meaning to. 

"I'm sure you remember how you asked me to see about getting you posted to DC," he said. 

Rats. This was just about work. Okay, she tried to push her attention back into that frame of mind. Her inner bad girl would have to go back into the box for the moment. It was jarring, but not unwelcome, because the words that would come next were ones she'd been wanting to hear for far too long. 

"Do you have something for me?" she asked. 

"One of our agents has gone missing. The only witness claims it was an abduction. I'm not assigning you to the search for him," Brad said. "But the department that he ran is now empty. His partner resigned a short while ago. For some reason, the Director has been quite clear that this department remain open and functional in the absence of our Agent. In a discussion with AD Skinner, who supervises the department, I mentioned you and he agrees you'd be a good choice. I thought this sort of thing would be just the thing for you. It's the X-files. You assisted the department with the search for that killer a few months back." 

Despite losing sight of Smith, she just about squirmed with the joy of it all. She wouldn't have imagined herself ever assigned like this. Not that the circumstances warranted this happiness. For John's sake, she wished Mulder hadn't disappeared. But this was a fondest wish come true. All her time in the Bureau, she'd always reined in her feelings and her ideas, because they were so far out there and because she had to operate within the confines that would preserve her credibility. But that had left her feeling undeveloped, stunted. Penned in. Feeling as if she could only reach just that much further, she could really start to find things out about the world and the way it worked beyond the sight of simple eyesight. That if she could stretch, she'd soon be making leaps that she couldn't imagine now, and solve things that would have before remained a mystery. Yes, she needed this assignment. 

"Thank you. Yes, of course I accept the assignment," she said. Then her inner bad girl demanded she be heard. She turned her voice slightly kittenish and more than a little flirty and added, "Perhaps you and I could meet to discuss it later this evening." 

He must have been at his office, perhaps with others present even, because she could almost feel his exquisite discomfort. She imagined him shifting in his chair. She smiled at this power she had over him. Then he said, "Yes, that would be agreeable." 

"Our usual meeting location," she purred at him, marveling at how she could lead him around, just by the tone of her voice and the slightest lilts and pauses. 

"Of course," he said, sounding slightly strangled. "But for the moment, AD Skinner asks that you meet with him as soon as you can get back from Montana." 

"I returned from Montana this morning," she said. "I'll be able to meet with him immediately." 

"Good," he said. 

"Later, Brad," she said. "Tonight." 

Then she hung up on him, knowing that she was leaving him wanting more, that perhaps he was half hard. And that was just how she wanted him. She just about skipped onto the next elevator down, exultant in her new position and in the power of her femininity. 

Scully walked off the elevator just as Monica walked on. Monica thought only briefly about Smith, slipping away anonymously into metro DC, going to anywhere possibly. But even now it was too late to follow him, she knew. So she turned around to catch up. Dana seemed wiped, just exhausted and heavy with grief. Dana's eyes were rimmed with red, as if she'd been crying lately. Agent Mulder was missing, and it was obvious that Dana had been hit hard, even though the news of her previously resigning seemed to indicate that she'd tried to distance herself, both from the department and from the man. 

"Agent Scully," Monica called out. "John's probably already gone home." 

"It's no longer Agent," Dana said. "I'm surprised they're releasing him so soon, Agent Reyes. His condition was so serious." 

"Haven't you heard?" Monica asked. "His condition disappeared completely. No sign of it." 

"You brought Smith here?" Dana asked. 

"I did, but he's gone now," Monica said. "And I need to know everything you can tell me about him." 

"I'm not on the X-files any longer, Agent Reyes," Dana said. That trace of bitterness in her was so very obvious. It tainted those words like a single drop of poison tainting a whole cup. "I understand you are now. All I know is in the files, which are now yours." 

"I'm sure there's more, things that aren't in the files," Monica said. "And I'm sure you could be reinstated. I wish you would consider it. I really need a partner. I think we would work well together. We did before." 

"I can't," Dana said, but Monica could read a little glimmer of desire to do just that in Dana's eyes. "I've left that behind. I needed to, for my health, for my sanity." 

"Did you need to leave the job behind?" Monica asked. "Or the man?" 

* * *

Barb bustled around, making disapproving noises every time he got off the couch, much less tried to actually do things for himself. She was starting dinner in the kitchen, as well as wandering around, tidying things that didn't need to be tidied. It was putting his teeth on edge to have her in his space, doing all the wifely things that once would have been natural for her to do. This was his house, not theirs, he was realizing viscerally as he saw her reposition his big picture book on the Marines, the one he kept on his coffee table. But he didn't say anything because she'd been kind enough to drop everything and come down here to take care of him. Eventually, she pronounced that dinner was in the oven and that all that was left to do was to wait. Not long after, she produced a couple of wrapped packages from her luggage. 

"When I told my mother about what you told me happened to the package I sent you of things for Luke, she sort of went into crochet overtime," Barb said as she put the brightly wrapped, soft packages into his lap. "She made them for a little girl. I was afraid I'd have to throw the packages out without giving them to you. They're way too big for us to have buried her in them. I don't know what else could have been done with them." 

He didn't want to think about that or talk about it, how close to death that they'd both come, so he turned his attention to the packages. He carefully slipped the paper open, lifting the tape up, drawing this out as long as he could. Inside the first package was a little coat, crocheted in a fancy lace pattern, white, with pink trim. The other, smaller packages revealed a bonnet and booties. They weren't made out of the crunchy feeling acyrlic yarn he had been imagining as he'd opened the package, but out of some kind of very soft cotton. He tried to imagine his little girl in the intricate garments. 

"My mom always did like you," Barb said. "Even when we were divorcing, she wouldn't hear a bad word against you. I used to think sometimes that she liked you better than me." 

"The baby will look beautiful in these," he said. 

* * *

Krycek had nearly drifted into a light sleep when he first felt the car stop precipitously, then heard the breaks. Not a squeal, but the pumping, jerking sound of anti-lock breaks doing their job. Only after it was over did Krycek see the thing she had been stopping for- a man standing in the middle of their lane. That man was unearthly calm, considering a huge Lincoln sedan had slammed to a halt just a few feet away from him. Something in the way he moved stirred the survivor in Krycek. 

"Go!" he shouted at Marita. "Go now!" 

The guy was almost reaching for their door handle by the time Marita reacted. She slammed on the accelerator and they peeled out of there almost as rapidly as they'd come to a stop. 

"There is a contingent of forces who don't want this child to be born almost as much as you don't," Marita said, after she swallowed hard. She'd regained her composure almost immediately. 

"You don't say," Krycek said. "How far away from this meeting are we?" 

"Not long now. Just another ten minutes down this road," she said. They'd turned off the state highway for an even narrower, lonelier county road. And, then a few minutes later, they turned down a gravel road. Chunks of stone bounced up off the surface and hit the car with regular thunks and the stone crunched almost like bones under the cars wheels. 

Krycek didn't allow himself to drift back to sleep, though he was tired enough. No, he thought about the man on the road. He hadn't been afraid at all, not even flinching at the car's onslaught. It seemed unlikely that anyone human had that much guts. Therefore, that was some non-human entity on the road. He wondered, was it a bounty hunter? Or perhaps even one of these new kind of hybrids that Marita was talking about, the replicants. 

They reached the farm soon. The gravel road brought them alongside the fence first, before they got to the gate. Krycek stared out the window to the rolling hills, their green velvet now concealed with the velvet of night. But it despite being far from any city, it wasn't an entirely dark night. The moon shone big and bright in the sky, illuminating things clearly to one who had the patience to pick details out of the darkness. As they drove along the fenceline, Krycek counted, not just one or three or five figures, human shaped but inhumanly still in the shadows, but ten persons. 

"Drive on," Krycek said as they reached the gate and Marita had been about to turn in. 

"But, Alex," Marita protested. "What about..." 

"If he's not dead yet," Krycek said. "Then I'm sure he soon will be." 

Marita drove on. 

* * *

"Your first task on the X-Files will be to assist ASAC Laurel McKinnon in searching for Agent Mulder," AD Skinner said to her as she sat in his office. 

Actually, it wasn't AD any longer, and the office was in more than a little disorder. It was Deputy Director Skinner and he was on his way up to the office on the floor above, right next to the Director's office. Skinner had still seemed in shock from this news when he told it to her, he having just received it a few hours ago while he'd been at the hospital, checking on John. The ASAC was sitting next to Monica, looking on during the proceedings with more than a little confusion. She probably didn't understand why she was there, wasting time meeting with the Agent on the oddest, most derided unit in the whole bureau. 

"ASAC McKinnon will be heading up the search for Mulder," Skinner said. "As she and her team have the most experience in missing persons cases, but I believe that the X-files department has an important role to play here, especially you Agent Scully. I can't say how pleased I am to approve your reinstatement to the X-Files." 

Dana was here as well. It really hadn't taken that much to convince her. Though Dana still seemed tired, since Monica had first run into her, Dana had changed, perhaps even slept a little. Her eyes were no longer rimmed with red, nor were any further tears seeming to be in the offing. She wore a perfectly tailored black suit with heels and looked exquisite, making Monica almost jealous at how good she looked in even the most professional and plain clothing. In short, Dana had gotten herself together. 

"I'll take a couple of hours to acquaint Agent Reyes with as much of the X-Files as possible, sir," Dana said. "And then we need to continue our search for a witness that may prove to be important to Agent Mulder's recovery. Jeremiah Smith disappeared from the hospital just as Agent Reyes was about to leave with him in custody." 

"Good," Skinner said. "ASAC McKinnon, what's your status? I can't tell you how important it is that we retrieve one of our own. Finding Agent Mulder should be your first priority." 

"I'm coordinating with Agents out of the Portland field office and other local authorities to search the immediate area. Though I've had to request assistance from the sheriff's department in the next county. The Bellefleur county authorities seem oddly uncooperative and I can't even track down someone in charge. I'll need a formal statement from you, Director Deputy, as well as one from Agent Scully and anyone else who might have been with Agent Mulder in the hours before his disappearance." 

Skinner looked first to Scully, then to Monica. Scully understood the unspoken question, but she shrugged ever so slightly. It was a tough decision. McKinnon was John's immediate supervisor, and while the fact that he'd had sex with a man at least once was publicly unavoidable because of the consequence of that sex, they didn't know if he'd mind if it were public knowledge that he'd started a relationship with Mulder. On the otherhand, Monica knew that he'd be offended if anything but the truth was spoken about him. Monica nodded slightly. 

"Agent John Doggett was in contact with Mulder shortly before his disappearance," Skinner said. "Their relationship is of a personal nature." 

"Oh," McKinnon said. Her poker face was nearly perfect and she betrayed little reaction to this revelation. "I've heard he's been released from the hospital. I'll arrange to take his statement at his home." 

"Agent Doggett's recovery is remarkable," Dana said. "Considering the seriousness of his condition. I think the interview should be kept as brief as possible, considering how sick he was just a little while ago." 

"I'm cognizant of this," McKinnon said. "I'll make arrangements to take your statement, Agent Scully. Deputy Director, I have an agent ready to take your statement as soon as possible." 

* * *

He was beginning to think he was going to have this baby, just to spite these entities who seemed bent of insuring that he wouldn't. Maybe it was just contrariness. Maybe the threat had activated some of the natural parental protectiveness that he'd been working so assiduously at suppressing. 

"Head for Richmond," Krycek said. "For the airport." 

"Why?" Marita asked. 

"I'm heading back to Russia," he said. In Russia, he still had contacts, people who would help him. Places he could go to ground. Protection. And they were still perfecting the vaccine in Russia. Unlike that bitter old man who'd always thought that the only thing to be done about the alien menace was to roll over and submit, in Russia, they'd never given up the struggle. Krycek thought that the aliens would find his homeland no more easy to conquer than either Hitler or Napoleon had found it. 

"Is that wise?" Marita asked. 

"I have no other choice," Krycek said. "None that I can see." 

* * *

They were tearing him apart again, the pain unbelievable, like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He was screaming mindlessly, like an animal caught in a trap, but the impassive faces of the bounty hunter and the others who had taken him remained changeless, not even curiosity passing over them. They stood just outside the circle of light that flooded over the cold stone slab he'd been pinioned to. Beyond them was near infinite darkness. Nothing and no one left in the universe. Him and the agents and instruments of his torture and nothing more remaining. And the saw descended deeper and deeper, until it seemed obscene that he should be in such pain, and not find the blessed relief of unconsciousness. But no, he watched with wide open eyes as another pair of mechanical arms descended from the ceiling. They reached to the gaping wound caused by the saw. Spreading spindly members wide into something like claws, the arms grasped the sides of the wound and pulled, spreading apart his chest, revealing the thoracic cavity, just like Scully would at an autopsy, until he saw his own, unbelievably beating heart. 

Then he was being shaken awake. He wasn't there. He was on the sofa, stretched out, Barb kneeling by his side, staring with grave concern at him. She still had her right hand on his shoulder. 

"John? Are you okay? John?" she asked, when he didn't say anything for a moment. 

He looked around the room, disoriented, still not sure how it was his own living room, his own leather sofa he was lying on, and not a gaping vast emptiness. He pressed a hand to his chest. It was whole. 

"You were having a nightmare, I think," Barb said. "You screamed. I've never seen you so bad." 

No, he wasn't, he knew, but he didn't say that. "Yeah," he lied. "A real doozy. I was dreaming I was back in the hospital, losing the baby. I'm okay now." 

"Good," she said. "Look, there's someone that's come to see you. I tried to send her away, but she said it couldn't wait. She's from your work." 

He looked where Barb indicated with her eyes, and saw Laurel standing in the corner of the living room, near the entryway. He pushed himself ungracefully up to a sitting position as Laurel crossed the room. 

"No, don't get up on my account," Laurel said as she crossed the room. Then suddenly she was standing next to the couch and never before had she loomed so large. Already tall, she towered over him. "I just need to ask you a few questions. We can do it with you lying down." 

"I'm not on bedrest anymore, Laurel," he said. "The preeclampsia is completely gone. I could go back to work tomorrow. I have a release from Koskiusko." 

"I'm not here to discuss that now," Laurel said. She brushed her thick, silver hair out of her eyes, then sat down on the leather chair next to the sofa. "I've been assigned to find Agent Mulder. Deputy Director Skinner has made it clear that this is a top Bureau priority. I understand you have a relationship with Agent Mulder that's of a personal nature." 

"He's my lover," Doggett said. He and Mulder might have been circumspect about their relationship before, but there wasn't much point of that now. 

"Has he been for long?" Laurel asked. You had to give her credit. She seemed to take the news pretty calmly. 

"Not long," Doggett said. "We started seeing each other after the Klassen murders." 

"When was the last time you spoke with Agent Mulder," Laurel asked. 

"About four in the afternoon on the day he disappeared," Doggett said. "We spoke on the phone. He was just about to leave for the airport, to get on a plane for Oregon." 

"What did you say to each other?" 

"We didn't have time to talk," he said. "He just told me that a friend of ours had given birth. And then he had to go. At the time, I was with someone who might be able to shed some light on Mulder's disappearance. His name is Alex Krycek. He's in the country on a diplomatic passport, with UN immunities, so I wasn't able to bring him into custody. But he's a very dangerous man and a known felon. He escaped when I collapsed and had my first seizure outside of the Hoover. We need to find him. Put out an APB for him. I'm sure AD Skinner can get you a photo." 

"Didn't you hear, John?" Laurel asked. For the first time, she smiled slightly. "It's Deputy Director Skinner. I'll see what I can do about tracking down this Alex Krycek. But can you tell me why Agent Mulder was going to Oregon? What he hoped to find there?" 

Here was the moment of truth. Because Laurel wasn't exactly the type to believe in anything beyond the normal range of possibilities. She didn't even want to hear about any hunches. If you had a hunch in her department, you'd better be able to back it up with facts. 

But bringing Mulder back from his nameless tortures just might depend on getting her to believe that he'd been taken to a place that less than forty eight hours ago, he would have scoffed at as well. 

"He was looking for an unidentified flying object," Doggett said. "And I believe he found it." 

"John!" she said, scoffing. "You don't really believe that, do you? I'd have thought you would have had better sense than to be swayed by Mulder's stories of little green men and flying saucers." 

"Laurel," he said. "Not long ago, I was dead. My heart had stopped. I'd lost quarts of blood because of a placental abruption and the doctor believes that I suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage, even though they can find no evidence of it now. They'd already put three big jolts of electricity into me and my heart was giving no signs of starting up again. My baby had been long dead, no heartbeat for over an hour. Then one of Mulder's aliens walked into the room and touched me. And not only did my heart start beating again, so did my baby's. I was completely cured. I show no signs of the condition that killed me." 

"Well, John," she said. "The Bureau's jurisdiction doesn't extend to outer space, but I will do everything possible to find him for you." 

"He's not in outer space, Laurel," John said. "He's still near. I can feel it." 

* * *

Skinner shivered, not from cold, because it was a mild, pleasant late spring evening, but because his present location was eerie. He was in a field full of satellite dishes, hundreds of them, with a handful of radio telescopes mixed in for good measure. But it was huge dishes pointed to the sky for as far as his eye could see, most of them shrouded in shadow. Why it should be creepy seeming to him, he didn't know. He was also on edge, knowing that technically he was trespassing, even though he knew that the gate had been left unlocked and that the Gunman had told him that there was one night watchman for the whole complex, and he was a drunk who tended to doze at a desk. They claimed to waltz in and out of here whenever they felt like it. Skinner hurried towards the dish that the Gunmen had specified. 

It was, surprisingly, all three of them, with none of the kids. No, Skinner corrected, none of the three older kids. They had their newborn with them. Byers and Frohike were huddled over a computer that they had linked into one of the satellite dishes, but Langly was sitting on the ground, holding a little, white bundle to his chest. It took Skinner a moment to put two and two together and realize that Langly was feeding the infant. And not from a bottle of formula. 

"Where are the other kids?" Skinner asked. He was curious. The Gunmen were notoriously protective parents and he'd never before seen them come as three instead of two and one left at home with the children. 

"Believe it or not, there are some sitters who can pass our security screening," Langly said. 

"My mother came up from Florida when the baby was born," Frohike explained. 

"So, this is Harry?" Skinner asked. 

"Did you want to hold him?" Langly asked. He popped the baby off his nipple then pulled his t-shirt back down, but not quickly enough for Skinner to avoid sight of Langly's swollen nipple. Langly's chest was larger, but you could hardly say that he had breasts, per se. Langly held the baby out for Skinner to take. 

Skinner looked doubtfully at the tiny bundle. The child seemed incredibly tiny and fragile, as if Skinner couldn't help but crush the child if he tried to hold him. Harry was breathlessly, perfectly formed. The floodlights overhead revealed every detail, from the perfect divot under his nose, to the shell-like shape of his ear to the very slight indentation on the top of his head, where Skinner knew that the skull hadn't fused yet. The whole process of human reproduction seemed impossible to Skinner. That such beauty and delicacy could have been formed so thoughtlessly, so automatically. That it could have been caused by two people engaging in the crude thrustings and gruntings of sex. It was a wonder and a miracle, one he'd never even thought about wanting to be part of before. And it was somehow upsetting to be witness to this miracle now. 

"No, thanks," Skinner said, gruffly. "What did you call me out here for?" 

"This is pure satellite hacking," Langly said. "We've been following this anomaly all across the west. Our UFO is going from Oregon, to Idaho, to Montana..." 

"It's a regular whistlestop tour," Frohike interrupted. 

"We believe it's going to New Mexico next," Byers added. 

* * *

Krycek found himself in St. Petersburg less than a day later. His second transcontinental flight in less than a week was just a hell of cramped legs and aching back, but he was glad to be breathing free, back on his native turf. Marita had left him in Moscow, presumably to work her own contacts and make her own inquiries. He didn't ask. He didn't care. 

He tracked Vassily down finally. It was a new apartment again, but then that was nothing new to a KGB stringer. He might have been retired but no one ever really left the game and to survive to enjoy one's retirement, they all had to remain canny. If they were tracked down to their lair, they'd just pull down the hole after them, and pop up elsewhere later. 

Despite that, all the apartments that Vassily had lived in over the years all looked the same to Krycek. They all looked old and cluttered, like an old man had been living in them for decades. Krycek, in a fit of whimsy, sometimes imagined a network of retired spies, all switching apartments when it heated up. 

Vassily opened up his door, just enough for Krycek to peek into his stuffy little apartment, but not enough for him to walk in. "I'm retired, Comrade Arntzen. An old man. The last time was the last." 

"I need your help," Krycek said. "Let me in." 

There were others he could have gone to first, perhaps should have gone to first. He could not say what impulse had driven him here, to this cantankerous, old man, this still dangerous relic of a system long collapsed into chaos. Except perhaps an illogical feeling that he would be safe in the old man's company. Perhaps it was one of those feelings left over from when Krycek was much younger and it seemed that there was nothing in the universe so fearful as this old man. Yet time had failed to shrink this giant like it had all the other giants of childhood memory. That, and there was a certain unconventional family feeling there. Vassily had been a constant feature in Krycek's grandparent's house, at least he had been when travel assignments had not taken him away. A great family friend, so it was said, but it had taken Krycek until adulthood to realize Vassily was lover to both his grandparents, that they had been in an uncommonly long menage a trois. There was even some confusion as to the parentage of Krycek's mother, something Krycek had discovered going through his mother's things, though it remained unacknowledged and not even commented on. Despite the possibility that he was Krycek's grandfather, the old man had always kept a formal distance. Still, Vassily could be counted on for any kind of help. He had come through again and again in the past. 

Krycek stepped back from the door a little, so that his whole body could be viewed through the crack that it was open. Just as Krycek had expected, the door was flung open. Yes, he was more certain now than ever that this man was his grandfather. 

Krycek was ushered in and before too long, he was set up with the hot, strong tea that he'd expected. Yes, and there were the sugar cubes to hold between his teeth as he sipped, should he want. 

"Sasha, you know, your father was a fool, to think he could play with the American the way he did," Vassily remarked, almost conversationally after a while. Krycek's condition had not yet been spoken of. They would get to it later, Krycek knew. When more important topics had been covered. The American was Spender, who had drawn first Krycek's father, then Krycek himself into the Project. For Krycek's father it had been a lethal mistake, but it hadn't proved so yet for Krycek himself. 

"The American is dead," Krycek said. "I should have done it long ago." 

"Yes," Vassily said. "You should have." He dipped his silvery teaball in and out of his cup again and again. To Krycek who had hardly gotten any sleep on the flight over, it was mesmerizing as it flashed in the light from the table lamp. Krycek found his focus slipping and his eyes starting to droop. 

"I need to get in contact with the scientists," Krycek said. No need to say which scientists or why. Vassily would gather as much as needed to know from the situation itself. Still, Krycek's condition had not been spoken of directly, and might not for some good time. 

"It was a long flight and you are tired, yes?" 

"Yes," Krycek said. 

"Then sleep, Sasha," Vassily said. "And I will make arrangements." 

* * *

Things happened, then with one thing or another, Monica found herself on top of a cliff in New Mexico with Laurel McKinnon at her side. 

McKinnon and the other agents were holding a gun on Mulder, who had a little boy named Gibson Praise by the arm. 

"Let the boy go, Agent Mulder," McKinnon said. Her gun hand was unwavering. Honestly, from her motherly appearance, Monica hadn't been sure that McKinnon could do it, but Monica had been proved wrong. "Let the boy go or I will have no choice but to use force." 

Scully finally caught up with them and saw what was happening. "Mulder!" she cried out and seemed inclined to run up to him. She stopped just short of where McKinnon stood. 

Monica sidled up to Dana and whispered into her ear, "I'm pretty sure that's not Mulder." 

"How?" Dana asked. 

"I have these feelings," Monica said. 

When she'd been around Mulder in the past, it'd always been pleasant, even exciting. Like she was buzzing off something in the air. But now, the buzz was sharp and electric and even so edgy as to be nearly painful. She was sort of reminded of how it was to be around Jeremiah Smith, or even more so. 

"Then who is it?" Dana asked. "No, nevermind. We need to tell McKinnon not to shoot." 

They never got a chance. The faux Mulder pushed Gibson Praise away, then started walking backwards. Before anyone could do more than call out, "Stop him!" Mulder was tumbling over the cliff. 

"People!" McKinnon called. "Let's get down there, now." 

But by the time they'd driven around the long way, there was no sign of Mulder anywhere. 

"It's as if he just got up and walked away," Monica said. 

"I think he did," Scully said. 

"Would you two mind telling me what's going on here?" McKinnon demanded. "A man just does not fall three hundred feet, then get up and walk away." 

"A man wouldn't, Agent McKinnon," Monica said. "Let me draw you a picture here. This is not a human we're dealing with, and that was not Agent Mulder." 

McKinnon didn't seem to have heard Monica. Instead, she stared up disbelievingly at the cliff that the fake Mulder had fallen from. 

"And I'll put it in a frame for you," Scully said. "There are forces in our government, even among those who walk the halls of the FBI who don't want Mulder to be found." 

Monica had to give the woman credit. After a while, she turned away from the cliff and said, "Okay, let's assume that we can hang this little sketch of yours up in the museum, where does that leave us? How is it going to help me find Mulder?" 

* * *

It was night when Krycek stirred from his sleep. He'd been laid out on Vassily's sofa with an old olive drab wool army blanket. He woke in a cold sweat from some nightmare that he could not remember. He never could remember his dreams. Perhaps it was just as well. He struggled to sit upright on the sofa, a lot harder than it had been the last time he'd had the luxury of sleeping on a soft, completely horizontal surface. Since being sprung from prison, he'd been on the run. Marita and he had not occupied the hotel room in Algeria long enough for him to sleep in it. They'd been on a plane a few short hours after they'd arrived. He'd grabbed sleep on various planes, and in cars, but it had been long days since he'd had multiple hours of sleep strung together. 

Vassily was bringing out another tray with more tea. This time, he had brought a bowl with soup in it as well, bread and a little dish of strawberry jam. A light meal of the sort you might bring an invalid. Krycek ignored the food for the moment though his stomach grumbled audibly at the smell of the soup. It was more important to find out if help was any closer. 

"Did you contact the scientists?" Krycek asked. 

"Vanya is on his way here," Vassily said. 

"No, Uncle Vasya, send him away," Krycek begged. 

People joked sometimes about having an evil twin, a shadow side. But Alex Krycek was the evil twin. Two children had been born to Krycek's parents the same day, and just under eleven years later, one of them had gone to America with his father, and one of them had stayed with his mother in Russia. The one who had gone had grown up to be the man known as Alex Krycek. And the other had grown into as normal a life as one who had been born into the KGB practically, could have. Ivan Arntzen had children and a job as a teacher of English and a family. In short, he was everything that Krycek was not and would never admit that he longed for, except in the deepest, loneliest hours of the middle of the night. He always told himself that it didn't matter, that it was good enough that Vanya had it. And Krycek had always distanced himself carefully so that there was no possibility that Vanya could have that life taken away from him. They had not seen each other since that day they'd parted at eleven, but Krycek checked up on Vanya whenever he dared, and occasionally, though not for a few years now, they'd spoken over the phone, briefly always, with Krycek looking over his shoulder and listening for clicks and even the slightest strange noise on the line. It was simply too dangerous for him to have regular contact with his brother and his family. 

But no, it was too late to send him away. Krycek could now feel Vanya, climbing the stairs, growing closer and closer. 

"He contacted me, Sasha," Vassily said. "He calls all the time. He knows you come to me sometimes. He calls and he begs for even the littlest scrap of news of you. He is your family, and it is to him that you must go now, not to the scientists." 

And then, there was the knock on the door and Vassily was answering it. 

Not time, nor the distance of the vast ocean, nor the exigencies that Krycek had been forced to exist among had changed them. Yes, Vanya walked into the room wearing a black leather jacket, jeans that rode low under his belly and boots. And with a black t-shirt covering his pregnant belly. His hair had grown slightly too long, like Krycek's, so that its bangs hung down into his eyes. Seeing himself reflected back like this was astonishing. How amazing his brother looked. How amazing was simply the fact that he was here. 

"Sasha!" Vanya called and hurried to embrace his brother. 

They had been separated so long, it was almost as if his brother had become some kind of ghost of memory to him, as if he were somehow dead. Yet now, being held in his embrace, feeling the hardness of Vanya's matching prosthesis was an undeniable proof of life. A shocking, glorious proof of life. Both of them put their good hands on their twins prosthesis at the same moment and said simultaneously, "What happened to you?" 

"You first," Krycek said, thinking of his own trauma in the forest. 

"I was camping and I fell into the fire and was burned. There was an infection that went deep into the bone eventually and the doctors could not save it," Vanya explained. "I was lucky to live." 

Krycek suddenly had to brush at his face. It had become uncomfortable with the unfamiliar sensation of trickles down it. His own loss, he had born silently, stoically, but thinking that his twin had suffered this because of some kind of connection between them was something that he couldn't bear. 

"When?" 

"Four years ago," Vanya said. "And you?" 

"Four years ago," Krycek said, but didn't say anything more. And Vanya seemed to know not to ask. 

"And this?" Vanya asked, then put his good hand on Krycek's belly without waiting for permission. Perhaps he was the only person on this planet who need not ask permission first. 

"Seven months," Krycek said. "It was against my will. The American...Just please, don't tell me that yours was against your will as well." 

"Not against my will," Vanya said, smiling slightly as he guided Krycek's hand to his belly. "Tolya and I tried so long for another, for years. We were so sure it wouldn't happen. It seemed like a miracle when it did." 

"I'm so happy for you," Krycek said. "You have to go now. It's not safe for you to be with me." 

"No, brother," Vanya said. "You are wrong. You are coming home with me. For years, you have protected me. Don't think I don't know that all I have, I have because of the sacrifices you have made for me. And now, I will protect you." 

"No, I can't," Krycek said. 

"You will, Sasha," Vanya said. "You will be safe with my family. So long as we aren't seen together, who is to know that you aren't me?" 

The uncomfortable trickling feeling on his cheeks started again. "My child, I can't carry it to term, Vanya," Krycek said. "There is no way. I can't bring this child into the world. I can't keep it safe if I could. I can't care for it if I could keep it safe." 

"I can," Vanya said, with such conviction that for a moment, Krycek believed that he would. 

"This is no ordinary child," Krycek said. 

Coming from you, my twin, I doubt your child would be ordinary. Krycek heard the words, but Vanya's mouth had remained still. Oh, yes. That was how it had once been between them. He had forgotten. It had been so long, so many years. He had convinced himself that the wordless communication that had once existed between them had been a childish conceit and not actual fact. But no, this was, if anything, even stronger than he remembered it. 

"You would do this for me?" Krycek asked, out loud more out of habit than out of knowing that his mere thought wouldn't be heard. 

"Now that you're home, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you," Vanya said. "I have missed you more than I can say, more than I miss this arm of mine." 

* * *

Barb had gone home after a few days, leaving him thankfully alone in his house again. But despite even personal call to her from Koskiusko, Laurel refused to let him go back to work even at a desk position. He was still on medical leave, so the weeks without Mulder passed achingly slow. Monica faithfully passed on progress reports from the search, but in a way, that was almost worse than hearing nothing. 

And to make things worse, Daniel just wouldn't get lost. The next day after Doggett had gone home from the hospital, Daniel had showed up, with the excuse that he just wanted to see how Doggett was doing. After that, he hadn't used any excuse. And while Doggett had showed him the door pretty quickly at first, he was getting worn down by Daniel's persistence, and somehow, each day Daniel ended up staying a little longer. Mostly they watched television together, talking occasionally, with Doggett carefully steering their conversations away from anything to do with the baby, from anything that would give Daniel any encouragement, from where Mulder was. Still, that left a lot of open territory and each day it got easier to talk with him. It worried Doggett. If nothing else, he worried about how was he going to explain his baby's father hanging around when Mulder came back. 

When. Not if. He had to believe that, that someday soon, Mulder would return. Meanwhile, the nightmares kept getting worse. And he had to deal with the fact that the loneliness and his unwillingness to go to sleep was keeping him from tossing Daniel off his couch and out into the night. 

Mostly Daniel avoided all the symptoms of being love sick, but that was obviously what he was, that was why he kept coming back when Doggett gave him not the slightest bit of encouragement beyond opening the door for him. To make things worse, Doggett actually found himself enjoying Daniel's company. In fact, the longer Fox was gone, the greater the temptation was to just believe that he was never going to come back, and that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to melt a little towards the man who, afterall, was the father of his baby. The fact that the man was strong and tall and handsome wasn't making it any easier. He filled out the jeans he wore as leisure clothes real well, to say the least. Disloyalty didn't come easy to Doggett, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't think sometimes of inviting Daniel upstairs instead of kicking him out at the end of the night once or twice. But he never even got close. Just one stray thought of Fox being tortured, one remembered nightmare and all thoughts of Daniel evaporated, like mist in the midday sun. 

"I know that I'm on very shaky ground here with you," Daniel said to him one night, ambushing Doggett when his attention was on a report about a big house fire not too far away from his house. They were sitting in Doggett's living room, watching the television news, the correspondent seemed harried as firemen rushed past her in the background. If things went as usual, Doggett would kick Daniel out at the end of the weather, but it seemed that Daniel wanted to derail the usual train of events tonight. 

"I'm not saying he's not coming back," Daniel said when he had Doggett's attention. "I would never say that. I know you love him. But I have fallen in love with you and I just want to know, I need to know, if he never does come back, would there be any chance for me with you?" 

And that question just didn't have an answer. Because Fox was going to come back. It was just a matter of when. If only his dreams of Mulder were more useful. If only he could do something besides take it easy for the sake of his baby, if he could get out there and search, but he knew that Mulder would be angry if he risked the baby in any way. 

Before Doggett had to answer, because Daniel's serious, proud face was looking finally, for some kind of encouragement or an actual dismissal, the phone rang. 

"John Doggett," said an only slightly familiar voice on the phone. He had only heard it once, two months ago, and no amount of searching by Monica and Scully had located its source again. "It's time." 

"Where?" Doggett asked. He didn't have to ask what it was time for. He just knew. Call it a feeling, like you would if you were Monica, or deny it like Scully might. But this was it. 

"Just outside of Flat Junction, Montana," Smith said. Then the line went dead. 

John was already thinking about plans as he set it back down in the cradle. Last minute plane tickets to that corner of the world were going to set him back plenty, and it wasn't like medical leave exactly left you rolling in the dough, but he had some savings and a credit card. He could swing it. Any price was worth it. And it wasn't exactly a good idea for him to travel this close to his due date, not when he was still considered high risk. But nothing, not a thing in the world, could have stopped him from making this trip himself. He considered calling Monica to travel with him. 

As Doggett was thinking about the easiest way to kick Daniel out, there was a shuffling sound at the front door. He couldn't leap from his seat to see what it was, but he climbed to his feet as quickly as he could. But the time he'd gotten there and opened the front door, and looked out into the night, he couldn't see anyone. He shrugged and looked to see what had been left between his screen door and the storm door. 

It was a simple manilla envelope. He opened it up carefully, but all that was inside was a single CD-Rom disc. On the front, three words were written with black marker, the writing crisp and decisive looking. "Fight the Future" the disc said. 

"Could you get me the phone?" Doggett asked. 

A second later, the confused Daniel put the phone into his hand. "I think you'd better go now," Doggett said. "I'm going to be busy." 

"What's going on?" 

"Daniel," Doggett started, his mind suddenly clear again for the first time in a couple of months. Yes, it had been kind of nice to sit each evening with Daniel and watch TV and pretend that he might have a normal life. Loneliness aside, that was the only reason real he'd let the man hang around. But this was what his life was really like. This was the world he belonged in. Mulder's world- a place where anonymous discs full of possibly world changing information were shoved under doors, where he was going to get on a plane and fly to Montana in the middle of the night on the basis of a handful of words and the chance to rescue the love of his life. Where alien healers pulled you back from the brink of death. 

"You're a nice man, Daniel. I don't think I could have picked a nicer guy to have a baby with on purpose. You're a good guy and I think that so long as you don't expect too much, I think maybe you could have some part of raising the baby we created by accident. But there's so much you can never know about me and the kind of life I have. You can never be part of my world, and you wouldn't want to, even if you could. So, go home, and don't worry about what I'm going to do next. I'll call you after she's born." 

Daniel opened his mouth to protest and Doggett put a finger up to his mouth to quiet him. "Go home," Doggett said. "Have a normal life. I'm sorry, I hope you don't think I was encouraging you in any way." 

Soon, Daniel had gathered his shoes from where he'd taken them off by the door and was gone down the walk, still shaking his head, as if confused to be thrown out so quickly and so finally. When he saw Daniel get into his car, Doggett started dialing. 

"Deputy Director Skinner?" he asked when the phone was picked up. 

"What did you need, Agent Doggett?" Skinner asked. He sounded irritated, but not, thankfully as if he'd been woken from sleep. 

"This evening, a disc was dropped off at my house. I think you can imagine what might be on this disc, how explosive it could be," Doggett said as he held the disc up to the light and watch the hall light reflect from the silvery surface. "I need to get it to you tonight and I think you should let only your best people work on it. Maybe just Agent Reyes and Agent Scully." 

"I can come over now," Skinner said. 

"Meet me at the airport. I'm on my way there as soon as I can," Doggett said. He was wondering how much he'd need to repack the usual travel bag he habitually kept in the car. Probably none of his paternity clothes were packed in it. The last time he'd done a travel assignment had been his first trimester. 

"Where are you going, Agent?" Skinner asked in a way that seemed to imply that there'd be no getting around answering this. 

"I got a call tonight," Doggett said. "I'm going to Montana." 

"Alone?" Skinner asked. 

"I was going to call Agent Reyes, that's all," Doggett said. "You know why I'm going. It's time. We can't let the Bureau know about this. Smith's people wouldn't be able to recover from another raid." 

"I want to be there for this," Skinner said. "I'll meet you at the airport." 

* * *

Krycek looked around at the sleek interior of the private plane that was taking them back to Moscow. He was stretched out on a lavishly upholstered sofa instead of crowded into the usual airline seat. The upholstery was gold colored velvet, the sofa itself was dense and tufted, a lush piece of furniture with big, curving rolled arms that were set at the perfect angle to be a backrest. Vanya had taken a matching armchair nearby and found an ottoman to put his feet up on. Not far away was an open bar, with crystal decanters filled with clear and brown liquids, and no doubt, not very well hidden away, numerous bottles of vodka. This was not the sort of place you'd expect to find a simple teacher of English. No, this plane was the sort of toy that belonged to one of the newly rich mobsters that now virtually ruled Russia from the shadows since Communism had fallen. 

"It's not ours, of course," Vanya said. "A friend...more of a client, owed Tolya a favor. Several favors." 

Ah, of course. It had been a while since Krycek had been able to check up on his twin's life. But Tolya was a lawyer. There was some pretense at a legal system in Russia these days. It wasn't like the old days where they'd just knock on your door in the middle of the night and away to the Gulag with you. Well, not as much anyway. But Tolya had always been a little too ambitious for simple criminal law, and that was why Krycek had approved of him for a mate for Vanya. It seemed obvious that Tolya had worked his way into some mobster's graces. And that was just fine with Krycek. Maybe Mulder wouldn't approve, but in this place, at this time, that was where the power was, and in the shadow of power was where safety lay. It didn't bother him that his twin wasn't good and pure, untainted by power mongering afterall. He was just glad that Vanya and his family were as safe as anything was in this world. 

"Who is this man you're thinking of, Sasha?" Vanya asked softly, after a long time of his twin's silence. "The beautiful one. With the nose." 

Of course. Nothing could remain hidden between them. Not that Krycek would have wanted it to be so, now that he was with the one person who could see his whole person and not cringe. Who could know the things he had done in the name of survival and struggle and not be disgusted. 

"His name is Mulder," Krycek said. "He's the other father." 

"He doesn't know," Vanya said, taking it all from the silent, mental communication that now passed effortlessly between them. "You don't love him. And yet, you don't not love him. He has always been an infuriating puzzle that you could not solve." 

"It doesn't matter," Krycek said, defensively. "He's gone. They have him." 

"Not forever," Vanya said. "You don't believe that." 

"I don't. But even if he's released, and still himself when he's released, there's been too much hatred between us, too much that is unforgivable." 

Before long, they were in Moscow, picked up at the airport by a driver in a big, anonymous looking, black Mercedes with tinted black windows. It rode heavily as if it were armored. No doubt it was. They were taken down long streets that flowed past familiar sights, past the Kremlin, past onion-domed cathedrals, past tall, faceless concrete apartment blocks, built during the Soviet era. Vanya and Tolya lived in one of these, but it was anything but the drear and cramped existence that had been intended by the builders. 

They were let off at the front door to one of these grim, gray blocks, but were greeted by a uniformed doorman, resplendent in scarlet with gold braid trim. To the doorman's credit, the only sign of the double take that passed his craggy, stoic face was a very slight widening of the eyes, that narrowed again almost immediately. 

"Mr. Arntzen," the doorman said as he opened the door. Though it didn't seem to take long, the doorman's every motion was measured, slow and dignified. And why was Krycek so sure that this deliberate motion was that of an old operative, perhaps another like Vassily, only he had not retired so well as Vassily had. But he was as much guard as someone to open the door for mere appearance sake. 

"Yuri," Vanya said. "This is my brother, Valery Arntzen." 

"Sirs," the doorman said, nodding as they passed through into a small lobby that had been refurbished. Instead of the dingy carpeting, rough walls and dim lighting that Krycek had been expecting, that one would expect to see in one of these places, the lobby had been lined with blond marble, both walls and floor. Newly installed lighting caused the whole space to sparkle. 

A smoothly running elevator brought them up to the tenth floor. Their family had lived in one of these state- built buildings during their childhood. They had lived only on the fifth floor, thankfully, because for as long as they had lived there, the elevator had been broken and they had been forced to use the stairs. 

No dark, dank hallways in this building, but more of the marble lined halls and plentiful lighting. The fourth door along opened at the sound of their approach and a young girl ran out to greet them. 

"Papa!" she called out, throwing her arms open to Vanya. She had wild, wavy raven locks and brilliantly green eyes, unmistakeably her father's daughter. She must have been about nine, maybe ten. When Kycek had been worming his way into the FBI, trying to pass the security screenings, Vanya had been busy with diapers and toddler tantrums. 

Meanwhile, though Vanya had hugged the little girl, he was scolding her at the same time. "Natasha, how many times must I tell you, you never open the door yourself. Always let Marya get it. You never know who it might be." 

"But I did, Papa," she said, tossing her hair. "I knew it was you." 

Definitely she was her father's daughter. 

"I would still feel better knowing Marya opened the door," Vanya said. "Now, come meet your uncle Sasha." 

Only now was Natasha shy, looking at her bare feet instead of meeting his eyes. But after a moment of silent prodding by her father, Natasha looked up, smiled nicely, and said, "Please, come in, Uncle." 

A harried looking young woman had been waiting on just the other side of the door, watching nervously. She seemed more fit, taller, more muscular than a simple au pair. No, she was more bodyguard than nurserymaid, though dressed up to resemble one. Presumably she was just another accessory to the life one lived as lawyer to the mob, and hopefully, her talents weren't much called on, except in the nannying part of the job. 

"It's fine, Marya. She was supposed to be asleep. Perhaps you could take her back to her room and I'll be in shortly to kiss her goodnight," Vanya said. Only then did the bodyguard/au pair relax. And then Vanya turned to his daughter and said, "What point in protesting is there, I ask you? You and I both know it time for you to be sleeping." 

She scowled but allowed herself to be led away by the bodyguard/au pair. 

Vanya walked him around the large apartment, first taking him to a sitting room with windows that looked over a view of the Kremlin, a pretty sight, especially at night, seeing the twinkling lights scattered around the purple velvet of the evening, as far as the eye could see. 

"Not like the little flat we shared with our parents at all, yes, Sasha," Vanya said. It might have been intended to come out proudly, and in some part, it did, but there was sadness there that no shiny new lobby or trip on a private jet could eradicate. The hole their past had ripped into each of their hearts could never be quite filled in, though being with Vanya now helped. 

"You're not sure leaving your child with me is the right thing to do," Vanya said as they looked out together over the city. At night like this, it seemed like endless strings of jewels, straight from the vaults of the czars. "No, it is not because you're ashamed that my money comes from crime. You're thinking of your Mulder again." 

"Unlike me, he has no family anymore," Krycek said. "He should at least know he is going to have a son." 

"So, you will tell him, when the time is right. And if time makes it clear that your son belongs with his other father, then I have a big enough heart to let him go," Vanya said. "But let's not let the future lend us more trouble than we can handle right now. For now, let us go introduce you to my Tolya." 

Tolya, the nickname for Anatole, was apparently in his study, working late. Anatole Josef Kasputin, Krycek knew from his investigations, had neither distinguished himself in schooling, nor in his early work life. He had hid it well, but Krycek had managed to dig out the fact that he was a Jew, not practicing but from a family that had managed to survive the predations of the mid-century and the centuries before, the Holocaust and unnumbered pogroms. He must have only recently found his way into the complicated network of obligations and favors that was life in the Russian mob. He had obviously done well by them. 

Vanya led the way down a hallway and threw open the double doors at the end of it. Inside was another large space, similar to the large sitting room they'd just been in. It was then that Krycek understood that this lavish flat must have been made by tearing down the walls between two or even three family sized flats. The view from this room might not have been over the Kremlin but it was no less spectacular for all that. 

At a surprisingly modest wooden desk tucked away in a corner of the large room, a man sat, pondering a laptop computer, a sleek, thin model with a huge screen. He reminded Krycek of no one so much as Mulder. Krycek had seen surveillance photos of Tolya before, of course, but they had failed to convey the height and grace of this man. He was perhaps a little taller than Mulder, Krycek noticed. Tolya shut the laptop then stood. Yes, definitely slightly taller than Mulder. But with the same taste for good suits and ties that pushed the boundaries of fashion. He must have traveled to Italy to the get the suits, Krycek thought briefly as Tolya closed the distance between them. Yes, the facial resemblance wasn't very close, though the large nose was definitely there. The hair was the same brown, cut so that it draped rakishly over the forehead. 

Vanya chuckled a little as he picked up on Krycek's thoughts, then said, "As if you needed any more proof that you and I are cut from the same cloth, Sasha." 

Tolya first put one arm around Vanya and kissed him, briefly, but still passionately. Only then did he turn to Krycek and say, "It's extraordinary to see you two side by side. It truly is. Welcome home, Sasha. How extraordinarily happy you've made my Vanya by coming home." 

Not "welcome to our home" or just "welcome" but "welcome home." Never before had Krycek been given such a simple and unconditional acceptance. And somehow, it caused a place inside of him that he had been sure was numb to thrum and throb with pain. Not because he didn't belong here, but because he did. 

* * *

The only flight going to anywhere near Montana at that time of night was out of BMI, not national, so Doggett drove out there, thankful that the late night time meant no traffic to struggle through. He made it to the airport in record time and left his vehicle in long term parking. He didn't know how long he was going to be gone, but it might well be a long time. 

Skinner was waiting for him at check-in, carrying a single bag and not looking the slightest bit tired even though it was now long past midnight and they were about to take the red-eye cross country. He handed Doggett a slip of paper. 

"Your ticket," he said. 

"You didn't have to pay," Doggett said, thinking of the gold card tucked in his pocket. He'd come prepared to pay the $950 ticket charge out of his own pocket. 

"As Deputy Director, I have a discretionary fund meant to be used to fund secret operations," Skinner said. "No questions, no accountability." 

As Doggett was about to step up to the counter to check in, three familiar figures trudged up to them. Frohike and Langly were carrying bags of equipment and Byers was carrying the baby strapped to his chest with a device he'd called a snuggli. 

Skinner seemed surprised to see all three of them and asked, "Is your mother still staying with you, Frohike?" 

"No, we hired a nanny," Byers said. 

"We had to. The rugrats were starting to outnumber us," Frohike said. 

"A nanny?" Doggett asked, curious about both how they would have found one that would have passed their paranoia screening, but who would also consent to work with this rather unusual family. 

"Byers felt sorry for him and hired Gigantor," Langly snapped. He, apparently, didn't feel happy with the new hire. 

"Langly, Jimmy's fine, so long as you don't let him near the filing, so quit your bitching," Frohike said. "Let's not waste the Skinman's time here." 

Skinner grumbled only a little at the unwarranted familiarity. He clenched his jaw for just a moment, then said, "Agent Doggett had a disc slipped under his door tonight. If I'm right, the information on this disc makes that DAT tape seem like something you could get through a Freedom of Information Act request. It could blow the current power structure away." 

"And if you're not right?" Frohike asked. 

"Then it's just junk. But we won't know until we read it," Skinner said. "We need to make copies, as soon as we can. Distribute them to as many hiding spaces as you can think of. And get to work on opening those files. Agent Reyes and Agent Scully should be on their way here to meet you." 

"Right," Frohike said. "We'll get on it and we won't forget that this stuff is so hot it might burn us." 

Soon, the Gunmen were gone and a short time later, Skinner and Doggett were sequestered into an otherwise empty business class and the plane was taking off, pulling Doggett down into his seat with the familiar, but still uneasy to him, forces of takeoff. Slowly, the ground dropped away from under them, the buildings growing smaller and smaller until all they could see was a network of lights against the dark ground. 

As they reached cruising altitude and the seatbelt sign went off, Skinner inclined his chair and seemed about to fall asleep. 

"Sir..." Doggett began tentatively. "Thank you for doing this. You didn't have to." 

If nothing else, Skinner didn't have to upgrade their tickets. That $950 had been for last minute coach prices. That discretionary fund must be awfully flexible to allow for that kind of money for plane tickets. 

"I needed to do this, Agent Doggett," Skinner said. 

"Sir," Doggett said. "I'm not here as Agent Doggett. This has got nothing to do with the Bureau right now. This is just me." 

"I have to do this, John," Skinner said. "I made a promise to you. And to Scully. And to myself." 

"You feel something for him, don't you?" Doggett asked, surprised at his boldness. 

"What I feel for Mulder is neither here nor there," Skinner said. "Mulder loves you. You love Mulder. And I've just embarked on a relationship with an old friend and I've grown to feel deeply about this person." 

Not a person. A man. Doggett was sure of that much. But why was he suddenly sure that it was Dennis that Skinner had started to see? He didn't ask, as it seemed more information than Skinner was willing to give at the moment. Instead, Doggett reclined his own seat and tried to get some sleep. 

It was still full dark when they hit tarmac in Missoula, Montana and the black sky didn't start to lighten to gray, then blue until they'd been driving their rental car for a couple of hours. They were nearly to Flat Junction when their rental car failed. First the radio went crazy, scanning from channel to channel, even though it hadn't been on in the first place. Then the dashboard lights flashed, and the headlights. Then it stopped in the middle of the road. After that was the bright flash of light that Doggett was almost expecting. Skinner stared up into the sky and Doggett followed his gaze to see what caused him to look so thunderstruck. Hanging in the sky in just exactly the way that objects so massive and solid should not, was a craft of some kind. It was huge and round, the bottom of it covered with blinking lights. A beam of light burst from the center of it for a brief moment, then it rose precipitously in the sky in a way that should have been impossibly fast. Nothing on earth could move that fast, but then this ship didn't exactly seem to come from earth, did it? It was gone seconds later. Their car started up as if nothing had ever happened, but Skinner pulled it over to the side of the road anyway and parked it. He got out and scanned the landscape. 

"You think you can handle this terrain?" Skinner asked, looking doubtfully at the hills and scrub. "I don't think we'll have to go far." 

"I can handle it," Doggett said. Even in the dim light of early morning, he saw a fairly clear path that headed off in the general direction. Neither of them had to say that they were going to that place where the beam from the UFO had touched ground. Mulder would be there, Doggett knew it. 

They hiked the short distance to the clearing and yes, there in the center of it was a small seeming bundle. Motionless. Despite the feeling that it might not be possible for him to climb to his feet again, Doggett dropped to his knees beside the bundle. 

There was Mulder. 

The dreams, the nightmares, hadn't been just dreams. There, writ plain as black and white on his body, were the signs of torture, and exactly the same ones that Doggett had been dreaming of. There on his wrists were the punctures all the way through his wrists, from the spikes that had kept him pinioned. Mulder's naked chest was bisected by a huge scar up and down the exact middle. There were scars on his cheeks. 

Mulder himself was dead. Stone cold dead. Cold as a coffin nail. He hadn't gone into rigor yet, but there was no doubt from his slack muscles and absolute motionless that he was dead. It was a heart stopping reality that Doggett hadn't been prepared for, an eventuality that he wouldn't have wanted to know about in advance. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This wasn't how the story ended. 

Doggett wanted to scream. He wanted to shout out to the world, "This is not happening!" 

He didn't. He looked up and Jeremiah Smith was there, silently waiting. 

"You can fix this?" Doggett asked, almost hopelessly. 

Jeremiah Smith didn't answer. Instead, he knelt beside Doggett and laid his hands on Mulder. A slight golden glow surrounded Mulder, but nothing more happened for a long time. 

Finally, Smith moved his hands away and Mulder breathed in a big gasp. Then his breath settled in even and regular and he opened his eyes. 

* * *

There had been nothingness, darkness, for a long time, something Mulder only became aware of as he started to rise to consciousness. The first thing he was really aware of was the passage of cold air down his throat, into his lungs. He was breathing. How strange to be aware of that so strongly. As if he hadn't been breathing. 

Then, slowly, other parts of his body started to check in. His skin was bare and even started to stand up in goosebumps because of the chill breeze. There was pressure under his shoulder and thigh. It took him a moment to categorize and sort out the two different feelings of pressure. Under his thigh was a small, sharp rock biting into him uncomfortably. Under his shoulder, at the same spot where Scully had shot him, all those years back, was a broad, flat stone. He would have expected it to ache, like it sometimes did, when it was cold. But it didn't. No, with more and more of his body checking in, he was coming to the conclusion that he didn't just feel fine, but was actually feeling very good indeed, better than he had in years, as if not just all those little aches that a man who'd been in and out of hospitals as often as he had accumulated, but also the bigger worry, the headaches and the....other symptoms had disappeared. 

Then he could hear two voices talking. He ignored them for the moment as he tried to figure out where he was and what he was doing there. He remembered Oregon, and the woods. And the light. But after that, nothing was clear. He tried to focus, and though he found some memories of tortures, they seemed far away and disconnected, as if they were of some movie he'd seen long ago and he couldn't focus on them. 

There was a big, warm something thrown over him. He almost startled until his mind supplied him with a theory- blanket. The two voices, who he hadn't identified yet, were obviously concerned that he would be cold. That would be a good sign. He listened closer. 

"We should get him to a hospital," said the first voice. It was deep, concerned, familiar. Skinner. 

"No, give him a moment," said another voice, not quite as deep, but still gravelly and grave with concern. And Mulder could not have wished to hear a voice more dearly. John. "He'll come around." 

After that, Mulder had no further reason to keep his eyes closed, to pretend to be less conscious than he was. Eyes. It seemed like an effort to open them, as if struggling to come awake after a long sleep when you were still tired. His eyes didn't focus at first. He could make out that the sky was blue, that sort of medium, clear blue that the sky is just that short time after day break on an achingly clear day. He blinked and things were clearer. 

Yes, there was John. Impossibly, wonderfully, John was kneeling, hovering over Mulder. Yes, there was the expected forehead wrinkle as he watched Mulder intently, almost anxiously as if afraid that he wouldn't be waking up, or that he wouldn't be the same if he did. 

John looked much like Mulder remembered him, only Mulder could tell right away that it'd been some months since he'd last seen John. His belly was much bigger, not the nice gentle roundness that Mulder remembered, but the big, low riding bulge of a person about to give birth. 

Another person stood not far off, big and bulky himself, but in the usual way. Mulder hated to take his eyes off John, but he looked away just long enough to verify that it was Skinner, his beacon in the dark. Satisfied, he turned back to John. 

"Where am I?" Mulder asked, his voice croaking, though more from lack of use, it seemed, than from anything wrong with him. 

"Montana," John said, then cracked a slight, wry grin. "I'd have thought with two months you'd have gotten further than two and a half states." 

For once in his life, Mulder couldn't find it in him to make a crack or a joke. 

"Two months?" he asked. 

"Two months," John affirmed. "I was beginning to think you'd miss her birthday. But you didn't. My due date's next week. C'mon, let's get you out of here. Skinner, can I have a hand here?" 

Because there didn't seem to be any reason why he couldn't, Mulder sat up, though it felt strangely unfamiliar to be telling his body what to do, even though it felt odd to feel his abs roll and ripple as they contracted. He scooted so he wasn't on the sharp rock any more. Even with the rock, he felt good. Unbelievably good. He wasn't sure what had happened to him, but whatever had, he had no reason to feel this well and this lighthearted, like he'd stumbled into his own birthday party or something. 

Skinner was already helping John to a standing position, using his substantial bulk to counterbalance John as the hugely pregnant man stood. When John had achieved vertical, Skinner turned to Mulder, but even as he did, Mulder was clambering to his feet, endeavoring to keep the blanket wrapped around him while he moved. He didn't mind John seeing him naked, but Skinner was another matter. 

"I don't suppose you have any clothes," Mulder asked. 

"Yeah, in the car, hold on," John said. He put his hand on the small of Mulder's back and made as if to steer Mulder down a path, to provide support and a steadying hand. As if he expected Mulder to be sick or weak or something. Mulder didn't put him off, even though he didn't need the extra help, just because to be close to John was the one thing in the world that he felt he needed at this moment in time. Nothing else mattered. 

It was a short hike down a rough path and then they were at a small, two lane highway, a rental car pulled off on the shoulder. Skinner opened the trunk at John's direction, then John dug through an overnight bag. He eventually handed Mulder a pair of jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. 

"What happened to me?" Mulder asked as he pulled the jeans on. 

"Later," John said. "We're going to get some rooms and spend the night. We'll talk there." 

Skinner drove and John and Mulder shared the back seat. It was a long ride over lonely highways until they finally approached something like a city- Missoula. Skinner turned into a parking lot, but Mulder said, "Can we get out of here right now? I don't want to be away from home any longer. I don't want to stay here." 

"You sure, Mulder?" Skinner asked. 

"I'm fine," Mulder said. "There's nothing wrong with me except I don't quite understand what happened." 

"He's right," John said. "Let's just go." 

Three hours later, they were several thousand feet over Nebraska and well on their way home. 

* * *

Mulder seemed not quite himself for days afterwards. He was turned in on himself, showing little or no interest in the outside world. He didn't protest or ask to be taken home when John brought him to Falls Church and not back to Alexandria. He showed no interest in hearing about the X-files, or anything connected to the Bureau. Doggett worried silently, creeping around Mulder as the man sat on the sofa, staring into the distance for hours at a time. He needs space, and time, Doggett told himself, he's just been through something really rough and I can't push him to talk, not now. 

It was three days of tiptoeing around Mulder, of being gatekeeper and keeping out visitors who understandably wanted to see Mulder, especially the Gunmen and Scully. Then the morning of the forth day, after a night that Mulder had spent on the sofa and not in Doggett's bed where he belonged, the breakthrough came. 

Doggett had put a mug of coffee into Mulder's hand half an hour ago and it had just sat there, undrunk, still held in Mulder's hand. Doggett was really starting to get worried, as if Mulder was retreating to near catatonia. Just as he was about to call Scully, to get her opinion, Mulder sighed heavily. 

It was an unbearable relief to hear though. It might be the start of a flow of memory, an opening of the gates, something that would allow Mulder to talk about his experience. It might be the start of the end. But at least Mulder was no longer in this stasis any longer. The coffee mug, with the coffee that must be stone cold by now, was plunked down with an unnervingly loud clunk on the wooden coffee table. 

Then Mulder spoke. 

"I'm sorry, John," he said. "I know it seems I've been cold. It's just that I don't know where I fit in anymore." 

"Right here," Doggett said, easing himself onto the couch beside Mulder, even though it meant a difficult time climbing to his feet again. He reached out for Mulder's empty hands and put them onto his belly. One on each side. At first, they were kind of uncomfortably cold even though this was a hot summer morning in June, a few days from July, the sunshine streaming into the living room through the shutters, Doggett could even feel it through his shirt, but after a bit he didn't notice any longer. "Right here by my side as I have this baby. Right here helping me take care of her, making the world a better place for her. A place that's safe. And right here loving me. Look, I can't imagine what it was like for you, the scars I saw on your body before Smith healed you, you being gone from everything you knew, you being confronted with nightmares I can't even imagine. But I'm here for you in every way I can be." 

Mulder's hands tightened slightly on his belly for a moment, then he breathed in a choked, strangled breath, a sob in reverse almost. Then those hands were loosened just long enough for Mulder to slip his arms around Doggett shoulders and pull him in tightly. 

* * *

He could never remember a time when he'd been happier. He was just living for the first time since before the FBI. He didn't worry, not much at least. There was a guard at the door, another in the apartment itself, and it just didn't seem like he had much to be afraid of, for the first time in a long time. There was no dealing to be done. At least not for now. The resistance could wait until he had this baby. 

For the moment though, he allowed himself to be taken care of by Vanya's servants, his only responsibility was playing the doting uncle to his niece Natasha. He helped her with her schoolwork in the evenings, and read her stories and at her insistence, he spoke to her in English so she could practice. Other than that, he sat and read and did little else besides grow a baby. It wasn't such a bad life, really. 

He was getting a storybook from the shelf for Natasha when he first felt the warm flow of waters down his legs. His jeans absorbed the most of it, but it was undoubtedly, unmistakably his time. He called out mentally to Vanya, and at the same time, his brother called out to him. 

Its time, isn't it? Vanya said right into Krycek's mind. A moment later, he walked into the nursery, all smiles and buoyant mood glowing from him like he was a lantern. 

They had figured they would go into labor, if not simultaneously, then very close to each other. Vanya had been intending to have the child at home anyway, with an old-fashioned midwife, as his delivery of Natasha had been uncomplicated, and as he explained, "the best place to get sick in Russia is the hospital." 

So, they had planned that only the midwife and a few others would know the truth, and that to the world at large, only one man would be delivering- and that he would give birth to twins as far as they were concerned. 

"What's happening, papa?" Natasha asked as the first contraction hit Krycek, feeling like something akin to an iron fist squeezing around his uterus. It must have hit Vanya at the same time, because he breathed heavily for a moment before answering Natasha. 

"I'm going to have your sister," Vanya said. "And it might seem scary to you, because all you can feel from me is the pain of it. But I can assure you that when I gave birth to you, it was the most joyous day of my life, and today will be the same. Now, go see if you can stir your father from his study." 

* * *

Mulder was slow to fully break out of his lethargy, but he did, over the course of the next couple of days, become willing to venture out into the world beyond Doggett's house. He wasn't ready to face visitors yet, but that was just as well because Scully, Monica and the Gunmen had suddenly gotten in deep with that disk thing. Not that Doggett didn't care, but as his due date loomed closer and then passed, it was hard to focus on anything much outside of thinking about the baby. And Scully and Monica purposefully withheld information anyways, out of clear desire to protect him. 

The second day, Mulder decided to go with him to his appointment with Koskiusko. 

On the way home from the airport, Mulder hadn't even noticed the car, but now as they walked out the backdoor and he saw what was parked in the driveway instead of the truck, he gave it a funny look. 

Doggett shrugged then said, "It's not really practical to drive around with a baby in a truck. Byers talked me into this particular model." 

That's how he, John Doggett, the man who preferred to drive nothing but American made trucks, had ended up with a Volvo station wagon. It was a nice car, he had to admit after he'd test driven it, and it wasn't quite as awful as some mini-van would have been. 

"No, I just would have never pictured you in one. I guess things are changing, aren't they?" Mulder asked, a twist of sadness in his voice. 

"Things are always changing," Doggett said as he walked around to the driver's side of the car and let himself in. 

Mulder let himself into the passenger side and asked, for the first time, "Do you know what happened to the X-files? Did they just shut it down?" 

"No," Doggett said, both relieved and worried at this interest. "They didn't shut it down. Agent Scully and Agent Reyes are running it together. Doing a good job of it too, from what I hear from Deputy Director Skinner." 

"Isn't that AD Skinner?" Mulder asked. 

"It was before he was promoted," Doggett said. "Look, I'm sure that as soon as you're ready to go back to work, he'll find some way to get you back on the X-files." 

"I'm not sure I want to go back to the X-Files, John," Mulder said, his voice sounding more wavering and unsure than any time that Doggett could remember it. 

"Plenty of time to decide that later," Doggett said, even though he worried silently about Mulder still. The X-files had been Mulder's life once, his passion, the reason he got up in the morning and what he dreamt about at night. Even considering what he went through, Doggett wouldn't have expected him to give it up without a struggle. 

When they got to downtown, as they got out of Doggett's new Volvo, Doggett said to him, "Thanks for doing this with me." 

They stood looking deeply into each others eyes, frozen for a moment in the chaotic swirls of the morning bustle of downtown. It was the first day of July and accordingly, the air in DC was a scorching, stifling blanket laid on top of everything, causing sweat to pour down Doggett's brow from just standing there. The glass of the modern buildings around them glared, a single blinding sheet of white light. He could hardly breathe, it was so hot. Car horns broadcasted their driver's fury and pedestrians brushed past them oblivious to the fact that they were having a singular, crystalline moment as separate from the hellish chaos around them as if they'd been on a different planet. 

"Since I've come back," Mulder started finally. "It seems like nothing much makes sense to me. Almost none of the things that were important to me matter now. Except this much I know to be true- that I'm supposed to be here with you. That you were the only thing worth coming back to. And that I wished I'd never left." 

Doggett was suddenly not worried any more. 

* * *

Mulder took in assertively masculine offices of John's androcologist as they waited, remembering the first time he'd seen John. It'd only been for a brief moment before Peter had hustled John off to another waiting area, but in memory, it had been a searing look that they had shared, each of them trying to read the other's life story in a glance that was only seconds long. He remembered the fiery determination he'd seen in John's eyes, as well as the loneliness, the longing. 

They hadn't been in this office together since then. Before now, Mulder wouldn't have presumed to take such a place at John's side and it hadn't been offered, though Mulder was realizing now that this was not so much lack of interest on John's side, but fear that he would be rebuffed, that it was moving too soon. Things were different now though. Everything had changed, and as odd as it was to think of it this way, the separation had bound them together. 

Before long, he and John were admitted to an examining room. John seemed long familiar with the whole procedure and started changing into the waiting gown without comment. 

It'd been a long time since Mulder had seen John naked. The last two nights, they'd slept in each other's arms, but Mulder had shrugged off John's advances gently. He hadn't been ready for that yet. 

Now though, John's bare body was a welcome sight, even as strange as the context was, in the air-conditioned to the point of refrigeration, cold tile and stainless steel examining room. John's smile when he realized that Mulder was checking him out as he pulled off his shirt was warm and genuine. 

Who would have ever thought that the slight swelling of John's chest over the great swell of his belly would be so beguiling, so oddly attractive, especially because everything else about him remained so unremittingly masculine. It was, perhaps, not the body at all that Mulder was attracted to, he thought, but the way that John's spirit animated, and that no matter the form, there would have been that attraction. But there was that smile and that was all Mulder needed to be thinking warm, inviting thoughts about what they might do once this appointment was over. 

John shook his head slightly, then said, still smiling though, "Well, you can't say that I didn't know from the start that you were weird." 

"What?" Mulder asked. 

"You looking at me like that when I'm as huge as a house here," John said, but that didn't stop him from seeming to be pleased or from flashing Mulder a little as he pulled the gown on. 

There wasn't any more time for this gentle flirtation. There was a knock on the door, then the medical assistant was in the room, taking John's vitals without much unnecessary comment. She did add though, "I'm sure Dr. Koskiusko will be very pleased to hear that your blood pressure is still very good. 110 over 90. You couldn't ask for better." 

It seemed an odd sort of thing to say, as if implying that there had been some kind of problem with John's blood pressure in the past. John seemed to pick up on Mulder's unasked question. 

When she was gone and they were alone again, John said, "I was going to tell you later, when it wouldn't be another burden for you to worry about. But when you were gone, I had a bit of a problem with my blood pressure. It landed me in the hospital, but Jeremiah Smith, the same guy that saved you, cured me. It was the thing that convinced me that maybe there might be more possibilities than I knew about before." 

Mulder didn't have a chance to ask any more questions, because there was another knock. This time it was Koskiusko. After greeting John, he turned to Mulder and said, "Mr. Mulder, it's good to see you again. He was very brave about it, but I could tell that your disappearance was very difficult for John." 

"I'm just glad to be back in time for the big event," Mulder said. 

"I know we haven't had time to go through the birthing class together, but there won't be any problems with Fox here being my birth partner, will there?" John asked, in a way that implied that there had better not be any problems. 

"Of course not," Koskiusko said. "Any one you want can be in the delivery room with you. Let's get going." 

Then the examination. It was over soon, thankfully. Mulder wondered what it would be like to give birth, something that John wasn't just contemplating, but actually going to be doing soon. For the first time in his life, Mulder felt regret that this was a journey that fate had not equipped him to take. John was going some place that he could not follow, but that only strengthened his resolve to be there for as much of this journey as he could. 

"You're looking fine, John," Koskiusko said. "But your due date was yesterday and I'm not seeing any signs that you're about to go into labor. I'm going to give you another week, and then we're going to have to start talking about inducing you, or possibly scheduling a c-section." 

"Okay, whatever it takes," John said. "Let's just get her out into the world. I'm just so sick of being pregnant. You know, I was wondering. A long while back, you told me to avoid intercourse, so as not to go into pre-term labor. But I was thinking, I'm post-term now, aren't I? Maybe now, it might not be such a bad idea, right? If it could induce labor." 

"It's a possibility now," Koskiusko said. "Nipple stimulation especially has been known to induce labor. Go on home. Everything is fine. I'll see you next week if I don't see you sooner." 

As Koskiusko left the room, Mulder couldn't suppress the grin that kept threatening to turn the corners of his mouth up and turn into a full on, shit-eating smile. 

"What?" John said as he got dressed. 

"Hurry up, man," Mulder said. "We're going to go home and work on inducing your labor." 

* * *

It was really a toss-up, Krycek decided, which hurt worse- losing his arm or this. 

He had breathing space between contractions of less than a minute but despite that, he'd labored for eight hours so far without much progress. Constantly feeling like he was being torn apart from the inside out, he didn't have much attention left to pay to the midwife when she would examine him and pronounce his dilation. All he knew was that the frown and furrowed brow he'd catch sight of was as clear a sign that you'd get that things weren't going well. 

Mostly the midwife tended to Krycek. Anytime she'd look over to Vanya, he'd say, "Look to Sasha. He needs you more than he needs me." 

Krycek was vaguely aware that something important was happening with Vanya at the moment. He could feel something, like a ghost of a feeling. It was something like an opening and a great push and effort. He happened to look up at Vanya in a brief respite between contractions. 

Vanya was squatting, his arms wrapped around Tolya's waist for support. Tolya had his arms wrapped around Vanya's shoulders. Vanya moaned and grunted, loud and low, like some animal, as slowly, impossibly, miraculously, the head appeared, first just a bump- the crowning, then soon after, a fully formed head. Despite Vanya's protestations, the midwife was right there, crouching beside them, hands held out as if to catch a precious burden up. 

Then another contraction seized him, and another and he lost track of what was happening with Vanya, until a long time later, Vanya was at his side, saying, "Breathe, Sasha." 

"I am," Krycek managed to squeak out. 

"Deeply, like this," Vanya said, then demonstrated the long, deep breaths that Krycek should be taking. But it wasn't enough. It hurt far too much for to even make sense of the world and the pain seemed only to be getting worse. After a while, he became aware that he'd moved on from moaning to screaming and not even Vanya holding onto his hands and mind could stop it. 

Krycek heard someone say, "Drugs, the man needs drugs." And then an eternity of pain later, there was the short, sharp bite of a needle into his arm, then after that, blessedly, nothing. 

He drifted a while, feeling scoured out and like he was wrapped in cotton. He slowly realized that he felt the pain no longer, just sore and aching. He felt empty, but that was better than the fire that had burned him through from the inside before. He stopped struggling to come awake because it was too hard. 

Some time later, he couldn't have said how long, he drifted to the surface of the sea of consciousness again, though it seemed that only his face popped above the surface, the rest of him still submerged in lassitude. He was in bed in his guest room in Vanya's house. The room was dark, the burgundy walls glowed deeply in the light of a single table lamp. And he was not alone in the grand canopied bed. 

The bed's other occupants were a full arm lengths away. Vanya laid on his back, a small, pink wrinkled creature with lots of black hair on his head was balanced on his chest. They were resting chest to chest, the baby's legs pulled up under him, like he was still curled up in the womb. Another one of the small creatures was laid on the bed on her back, nestled in the crook of Vanya's arm. Vanya sighed tiredly, but contentedly as he stroked the head of the baby on his chest with his one free hand. 

It was a beautiful scene, the peaceful trio, with the babies sleeping and Vanya radiating love, serenity and pleasure. For some reason, Krycek found himself tearing up at the sight. It was as if Vanya had every bit of the contentment that had been scoured from Krycek and left him feeling so empty. 

"Meet your son, Sasha," Vanya said. 

Then Vanya shifted and squirmed, in a way that almost magically, or so it seemed to Krycek, didn't disturb the baby girl sleeping next to him. And then half a second later, Krycek found himself with a weight on his chest. A small weight that moved just a little. The baby's bare skin was warm against Krycek's bare chest. 

He tried to focus on the child, but it was hard, with the way his eyes kept leaking. This child seemed impossible, because he was so perfect, from the slightly dusky tone of his skin, to the little divot under his nose, the cupid like curves of his lips, the lushness of the dark brown hair that covered his head to the blue eyes that stared blankly at him. Even the soft little sounds the baby started to make, perhaps grousing for something to eat or just because he'd been disturbed. It was not just the simple miracle of life here that seemed impossible, but the mere fact of his existence. 

Krycek knew with certitude that this child was a product of the Project's science. And yet this baby was utterly unlike all of the mistakes they'd produced- all of those malformed mutants, or well-formed, yet undeniably alien creations. This was not the first perfect hybrid, Krycek reminded himself. And yet, it seemed like science, no matter how advanced was too blunt an instrument to have produced such a creation. No, something like this could only have been produced by the usual means- the processes of evolution whose expertise in making new life been honed by practice sessions of millions upon millions of years. 

"Take him back," Krycek said, suddenly realizing that if he let this child rest on his chest for too much longer, it was going to be hard to ever let him go. Perhaps the individual child was the product of technology, perhaps the fact that Krycek could have been the vessel by which it was produced was caused by a strange new mutation, so far reaching only to two generations. That didn't matter. Because that mutation must have only existed because the potential was already writ there in the genes from time immemorial. And his mammalian instincts were starting to work overtime. He couldn't afford to fall in love with this baby. 

Thankfully, he had to explain none of this to Vanya, who took the baby without comment. 

"I should go as soon as I can travel," Krycek said. 

"It may be a while," Vanya answered. "You tore significantly during delivery." 

"What happened?" Krycek asked. He could remember passing out after he was injected with something, he assumed drugs, but nothing more. The way it had gone before, he was surprised he'd not woken up in the hospital, the baby torn from his womb by c-section. 

"The best we could come up with on short notice was morphine," Vanya said. "After the drug started to work, you were able to relax enough that you progressed and your baby was born. He's not that big, but his head is huge." 

Krycek looked briefly at the baby again, and though it seemed like the child had a slightly larger head than average, it wasn't so much so that the child appeared deformed. The child had started to fuss ever since he'd been put back onto Vanya's chest. Vanya sat up and offered the baby one of his nipples. Indeed, the crying had started let down in Vanya and little pearls of bluish-white milk had formed at the tips of his nipples. The child sucked for a few moments but spat the nipple out again soon. 

"I don't think he's hungry, Sasha," Vanya said. "I think he wants you." 

"He's going to have to get used to disappointment," Krycek said, struggling to sit up himself, hoping to find the reserves in himself to get up and leave this apartment now. They weren't to be had though. The most he could managed out of himself was halfway sitting, propped up by pillows and the headboard. 

"Sasha, it is permitted for you to love your child," Vanya said, very, very gently. Then eight pounds of vulnerable, beautiful perfection was put into his arms and he couldn't not press the child to his own chest as he had seen Vanya do, then pull the slightly enlarged breast and guide it into the baby's mouth. The child clamped on and Krycek knew that he was lost. That it was too late. The tears that now flowed down his face seemed to him to be mixed of sorrow and joy. 

* * *

A week passed, nothing happening except lots of excuses for them to stay in bed and make up for lost time. 

The morning of the seventh day, Doggett woke early, while the light still angled in low from the east, casting long shadows. It was that golden hour of the morning that always sounded so encouraging to Doggett. The sunlight was golden, but soft. The only sounds were those of the birds and other people up early getting to places: car doors opening and closing, an occasional car horn in the distance and far enough away for it to sound pleasant, someone firing up the lawnmower. 

Despite the air conditioning, he still felt hot and sticky, Fox's body just too warm to snuggle against for the moment. Truth be told, he felt far too restless to remain in bed anyway. He didn't so much slip out of bed, but sort of push himself through a controlled stumble out of it. Only Fox's deep slumber assured that he didn't wake. No care on Doggett's part caused it. 

Once out of bed, Doggett contemplated putting on clothes but decided that even the light and stretchy shorts he'd been wearing a lot would be too much. He shuffled out of the bedroom, hands supporting the small of his back, in quest for the bathroom. 

The usual necessities taken care of, Doggett looked up to realize that Mulder had gotten up and was standing in the doorway, watching him. 

"You didn't even give me a chance to hold it for you," Mulder said, with a wicked grin on his face. He was wearing nothing but the smile and a fine example of morning wood. Normally, that sight would have caused Doggett to smile too, but right at the moment, he was feeling like something along the lines of beached whale and that cast an irritating light on everything. 

"Fuck you, Fox," Doggett said as he turned on the water tap. "I may not be able to see it, but I can feel it just fine. Anyway, I figure you had plenty of chance to hold it last night." 

Mulder only grinned at that. Doggett ignored him in favor of washing hands, then face. He splashed cold water over his head and ran his fingers through his hair to straighten some of the bed head effect out of it. Minimal grooming taken care of, Doggett headed downstairs, wondering if it was really too hot for coffee or not. 

He started some brewing anyways. Mulder was close behind, nuzzling up to Doggett as he poured the water into the coffee machine. 

"Come back to bed, tough guy," Mulder pleaded. 

Ugh. It felt just smothering to have warm flesh against his body and Mulder was just too close. And, besides, looking all around at the tidy kitchen, all he could see was the ways it needed to be scrubbed and how it just wasn't as clean as it looked. 

"It's just too hot," Doggett protested as Mulder insinuated himself even closer, putting a leg between Doggett's legs. Doggett found himself almost growling a little, and Mulder moved away. 

"I'm sorry," Doggett said, sheepishly, thinking that there wasn't any rational reason why the same things that had exciting him just hours ago were stifling now. "I thought I'd do a little housework, and then I've got that appointment with Koskiusko later today. As fun as it's been, the sex thing just doesn't seem to be doing the job." 

"Maybe we'll just have to trust to medical science," Mulder said. He put a gentle hand on Doggett's belly, smiling as the baby answered with a kick. Doggett could actually see the surface of his belly move and shift as she moved. Things must have been awfully tight in there for her, he thought. And she had seemed restless too. She had hardly stopped moving lately, at least when he was awake. 

"Would you be disappointed if you had to have a c-section?" Mulder asked. 

"Maybe a little," Doggett said. "I'd like to think, you know, that I could do this all on my own. But it doesn't really matter, so long as she gets here some way." 

"Have you decided on a name yet?" Mulder asked. 

Doggett hadn't even wanted to think about it yet, mostly out of some childish superstition that it would somehow jinx the whole thing. Even now, he'd carefully avoided deciding on any one of the hundreds and hundreds of possibilities swirling through his head. 

"Let's wait and see what she's like when she gets here," Doggett said. 

* * *

It was less than an hour later, and John was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor like an old Irish washerwoman or something when it happened. 

Mulder had guessed that today would be the day anyway, just from John's restlessness, and this otherwise unexplainable desire to clean. It was the nesting instinct taking hold. 

John dropped his rag, breathed out with a big, "uhph!" Suddenly, it was as if he became totally focused inwards. He continued to breathe heavily for a moment, remaining on all fours. 

"Wow," he said after a while. "I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to stand hours of that." 

"This is it?" Mulder asked, suddenly excited. What ran through his head, of course, was all of the different television depictions of this moment, whether comical or dramatic, and not any of the plans they'd been discussing over the past seven days. His mind managed to be completely blank for a moment too, causing him to stare wide eyed as John nodded. 

Then, just as Mulder was about to nod helplessly in bewildered response, another contraction hit John, causing the same heavy breathing and focused, inward look. Mulder, thankfully, remembered that the thing he needed to do was look at his watch. They needed to time these. 

Once the contraction was over, John clambered to his feet, Mulder having to help lever him upright. 

"I suppose I should get dressed," John said and started walking to the stairs. He made it to the top of the stairs and the door of the bedroom they shared before the next one hit. Mulder checked his watch again. 

"Four minutes, thirty-five seconds," Mulder pronounced. 

"We got a while to go yet," Doggett said. 

Even so, it seemed to pass in a blur, like there wasn't much to do, but it all passed in a tremendous hurry, then suddenly they were at the hospital. 

For the moment, they were alone in the birthing suite room, Koskiusko still not having made his appearance. Langly dropped by, without the baby or anyone else in tow. 

"I can't stay long," he said. "I just thought maybe you needed to hear something from me. This is for you only, Doggett." 

He stared meaningfully at Mulder so, Mulder left them alone for a moment. 

* * *

Langly leaned in close. Even though he was years younger than Doggett, he looked wise beyond his years suddenly, certainly much older and calmer than Doggett felt. Doggett felt like a scared kid again, in the face of what was happening. He wanted to crawl crying to his mama, and that was the plain damn truth of it. Nothing had hurt like this before and he had a feeling that he was nowhere near the end of it. 

"Okay," Langly said. "I just thought you needed to know that you'll get through this. But that this is where you need to throw any ideas you might have about being a man or being brave or any of that crap out the window. Stoicism, in this case, isn't a virtue, it's just damn stupid. What's going to happen won't be like anything you could imagine happening to your body. But I've done it four times, and let me tell you, the payoff is worth the cost. It's worth a thousand times the cost. And if you cry or you scream, no one's going to remember that you acted like what you think is a coward. They're going to remember that you made a baby. Another little person." 

Another contraction hit Doggett. They were more like two minutes apart now and each was more agonizing than the last, so bad he couldn't even hardly remember how they felt as soon as each one was done and he had a momentary respite. 

"You did this four times?! Voluntarily?" Doggett asked. 

"Well, the first time was kind of an accident, but the other three were by choice, yeah," Langly said. "You'll get through it. I did and I'm the biggest pain wuss. Just ask Frohike. Hey, I gotta get back to my baby. You probably don't want me hanging around anyway. I know I can't stand anyone but Frohike in the room with me." 

With that, he was gone. Mulder came back in. Everything was more or less normal for a while, at least as normal as any of this could get. The nurse came and went after suggesting that Doggett could use the whirlpool tub. Mulder drew the tub and they both sat in it. It did make things easier for a while, but Doggett also felt restless in it, like what he really wanted to be doing was pacing around the room. He was about to do this and get out of the tub when a familiar face peeked around the door to the suite. Of course, considering how things were going, it seemed fitting somehow that it was about the last face he wanted to see at this moment. Not with Mulder here and him somehow never having had the time to explain about how things were. 

A moment later, the man himself had walked into the suite. Daniel was in civvies, not scrubs. He and Mulder stared suspiciously at each other, then at the same time said, "John? Who is this?" 

At just that moment, another contraction, this one harder and more painful than the last if such a thing was possible, hit John with such ferocity that he couldn't speak for a moment. He heard someone practically howl, not realizing it was him. He'd taken Langly's advice hours ago and didn't hold anything in, but this was a whole other level of pain. 

"Mulder, this is Daniel Kerry," he said when he could speak again. "Who gave me the other half of the genetics of this bowling ball that seems determined to tear me apart from the inside out. Daniel, this is Fox Mulder, who is going to be my little girl's daddy. You will get along, both of you. Or I swear I will pull both of your balls out through your throats." 

Daniel and Mulder stared at each other again even more suspiciously but wisely each of them decided not to say anything as another contraction hit John. 

Later, Doggett turned to Daniel and just let him have it, "You know, I said I'd call you when she was born. You think that you can just waltz in here and be part of this." 

Daniel bore this stoically, without comment, his face something akin to a stone wall. Then another contraction, this one coming more quickly than the last. 

"Jesus, you really are a heartless bastard," Doggett said. Then another contraction. And after, "You're supposed to be some kind of doctor. Do something. I want drugs. Lots of them." 

Daniel opened his mouth, closed it again, then said, "I'll go see what's keeping Koskiusko." 

As he left, Mulder said, "Wise choice." 

* * *

Eventually, even the presence of the interloper, this Dr. Daniel Kerry, ceased to be of concern to Mulder. If anything, it was kind of a relief to have him here, because he was the one who had ended up as target for John's wrath. So Mulder was free to watch, to immerse himself in what was going on. 

Mulder stared at John as he held on to Mulder for support. John was luminous, Mulder thought, the most beautiful being he'd ever seen. It was the intense focus on some place that was totally internal. Even as John's face was wrenched in agony, it was beautiful. 

They were finally in the last stages. John was fully dilated, at least according to Koskiusko's pronunciations, and John was pushing. It felt like he was going to break Mulder's hands, he was holding on so tight, but in a moment that seemed drawn out into an eternity, the head started to crown. First just a strip was visible, then it got wider, until it undeniably a head. Finally, the face could be seen. 

It was over in moments, the first part, as it often is, the hardest part. The shoulders and body of the baby slid out quickly and suddenly there was a new person in the world, brought forth as if by some deep magic. There was a cry even before Mulder could stop Koskiusko from the traditional hang by the ankles and slap on the ass. Just the thought of that seemed cruel somehow. There'd be plenty enough occasions in the future for the world to kick her in the ass. But, Koskiusko didn't get the chance. She cried first, as if traumatized to be separated from John. Koskiusko laid the baby, still bloody and wet, onto John's chest. 

"There you go, Dad. Meet your little girl," Koskiusko said. 

She was amazing. There was no other word for this miracle of flesh that rested on John's chest, still crying, but slowly quieting as she realized that though she might no longer be inside, she was still near John, who held her as closely as he could without crushing her. He stared wide-eyed at her as if he couldn't believe that something so precious and fine had come from him. He stroked the child's hair slowly with one finger. John heaved a great sigh, an obvious combination of happiness and relief. For a moment, Mulder felt an odd kind of loneliness as he realized that these two shared a bond far deeper than he would have ever have with either of them. It was the familiar ache of the solitary heart. But then John looked up from the child with sheer joy in his eyes, and furthermore, an invitation to share in it. And if Mulder didn't get the hint from this wordless gesture, John said, "C'mon, get your ass over here and meet your daughter." 

Mulder leaned over the pair of them and laid one of his hands delicately on her cheek, just a couple of fingers actually. It was warm, softer than he imagined, and her eyes moved to his general direction, though she was far too new to focus on him. His heart twisted in his chest again, but not with the previous ache. Instead, it was like his stomach dancing up in his throat and lightning striking him where he stood. He understood what John must have been feeling, because he was now feeling it himself. 

They were allowed only a few minutes of this before the medical professionals swooped down on the scene, tearing her away for the sake of weighing and all those other mysterious things they did. She was returned a short while later cleaned, dried, swathed in a diaper that seemed mammoth on her, with a little white knit cap on her head. 

John was still lying back, exhausted when they returned the child. Still, he instantly came to attention the moment she was in the room. She was put into his arms and all his attention, all the focus that those deep blue eyes could convey was centered on just one thing. Mulder watched as John fed the child for the first time. It was sort of an adventure, it seemed, to get her to latch onto a nipple so small, when the breasts themselves weren't much more than bumps. 

"Jeez," John said, with a half rueful smile as she finally got it. "This kid's got suction like a hoover. The vacuum, not J. Edgar." 

"Speaking of which, have you decided on a name, or are we going to call her J. Edgar Jr. all her life?" Mulder asked. 

"Not a half bad idea," John said, but he was smiling, a kind of tease, Mulder recognized, glad that John could find a sense of humor after all of that. "Seriously, I was thinking of calling her after my mother- Virginia. Ginny." 

Mulder looked at John's, no, their child, at the dark hair that curled all over her scalp, at the long lashes framing the eyes that were quickly drooping to sleep, at the skin that was still flushed, but healthy seeming. He tried to divine some of the personality within, but noticed only that she seemed placid and satisfied to be with John, perhaps even confident that she wouldn't be taken from him. Her fists were tiny and she had grasped tightly onto one of John's fingers. Her features were finely wrought, and, for a newborn, sharply chiseled, so that she looked so much like John, except for her lips. She had finished with the nipple a short while ago and released it. Her lips, especially her lower one, were full and curving, a perfect cupid's bow, in which Mulder could see echos of Kerry's fuller lips. She was a long baby, tall already, and had weighed, Mulder vaguely remembered hearing, a whooping eight pounds, ten ounces, which was gargantuan for a child born to a man apparently, the cause of some conjecture as to how John had managed to get her out without more medical assistance than he had. 

Mulder had never met John's mother, didn't know what manner of woman she was, other than that she was so set in her beliefs as to cause endless heartache to her son by her refusal to welcome this child into the world with the joy that ought to be her due. But though Mulder wouldn't have given the woman this honor himself, he wasn't going to argue with John's choice, considering that his part in their lives was by chosen obligation, not by blood. 

"Yeah, I think that's it," Doggett said. "Virginia Fox Doggett." 

That was a strike out of the blue, and Mulder was stunned at the honor. "I'm speechless, John," Mulder said. He'd been sitting in the chair next to John's bed, and suddenly, John sat up just a little to put the small bundle of child into Mulder's arms. 

He was almost afraid that she would realize the switch, that she would feel the betrayal instantly. She didn't, or if she noticed, she didn't care. She shifted a little in his arms, as if nuzzling into a snuggle, then fell deeper asleep. 

"We oughta get some pictures, send them to my mother," John said. "Make some calls, let people know." 

For the first time in a while, Mulder noticed that Kerry had been hovering in the background, not quite part of the scene, but not gone either. For the first time, he felt sorry for Kerry. This child might not be of Mulder's body, but she would so obviously be the daughter of his soul. And Kerry seemed to know this, that he wasn't welcome here, and yet he somehow wasn't free to go. 

John noticed Kerry too, and motioned him over. "You know, we should get the formalities over with as soon as possible," he said. "You know, the paternity test. We probably should get a lawyer to draw up any agreements we need." 

Kerry nodded mutely. 

"I'm sorry, Daniel," John said. "This is just the way things are." 

"I'll go make arrangements for the test," Kerry said. 

* * *

Three weeks later, two miraculous things happened. 

The first they missed, having been out at a well baby checkup for Ginny, but the evidence of it remained on their answering machine. It had been blinking when they returned and as Mulder went to put the sleeping baby into her bassinet, Doggett played it, immediately floored by what he heard. 

"John, this is your mother. I know it seems that I've been harsh, and maybe I have. But I think for the sake of my granddaughter, we ought to try and put that behind us. I thought I might come up to see her. Please call me." 

Though it was hardly the groveling, conciliatory message he thought he deserved, he was smart enough to know that sometimes people need to take baby steps, that a short, sharp phone message might be all that they can manage at the moment, and maybe next time, her heart might melt a little more. It was as his theory had supposed- that it was hard for any woman, no matter how caught up in her supposed morality, to resist a grandchild. 

He was still staring senselessly at the cordless phone as Mulder wandered into the room, a brown cardboard box in his hands. "Oh, hey, the mail came," he said. "Looks like it's from your mother. Is she now speaking to you again?" 

Doggett had it open in short order and he reached in. First he pulled out a frilled, silky dress. It was not quite pure white, but ivory. He recognized it, but barely. It was a family heirloom, something that he'd seen only once or twice. It was a christening dress. He'd worn it himself, just the once of course, many years ago. His mother had converted to a Christian church that believed in adult baptism, but no doubt, tradition held a strong sway over her. He set that aside and pulled out a number of other outfits, these less dressy, but still exceedingly girly, all pink and lavender and lace. 

Mulder raised an eyebrow over the sudden snowstorm of lace. "Looks like my Ma is starting to come around," Doggett said. 

The second miraculous thing was another phone call. They were home for this one. Mulder was off taking care of Ginny, making a hugely disgusted face as he changed one of her diapers, so Doggett walked into the next room to pick up the ringing phone. 

This call was from the lab that had done the genetic testing. 

After the preliminaries, the lab tech he was speaking to finally said the unimaginable. Doggett asked the tech to repeat it again. 

"The probability of Daniel Kerry being the parent of Virginia Fox Doggett is zero," she said. "He's not the father of your child." 

"Doggett's first thought was simple relief, a heartfelt, "Thank God." It would be so much simpler if there were no reason for the man to be hanging around. 

Only then did he worry, because barring divine intervention, Kerry was the only possible candidate. Mulder hadn't come into his life until after he was long pregnant. He thought for a moment about what Alex Krycek had said, words he'd thought were casually tossed off in a kind of scare tactic. But if what he'd just heard was true, then how did he know that his pregnancy was natural and normal. He thought of twisted, agonized fetuses in jars at Zeus Genetics. But Ginny was normal, he told himself. Just a baby. 

"Then who the hell is?" Doggett asked out loud without meaning to. 

"I can't tell you that, sir," the tech said. "I can only confirm or rule out possible candidates." 

"Look, run I'll pay you to run the tests again, because there has to be some kind of mistake," Doggett said. "This guy is the only possible candidate." 

"Allright, it's your money," the tech said. "But we don't make those kind of mistakes around here." 

Doggett put down the phone and walked back into the nursery. The late afternoon sun was flooding into the room, setting the warm yellow walls aflame in a gentle fire. Mulder had finished with diaper duty and settled himself and the baby into the glider. He was pushing them back and forth. He wasn't exactly singing, but he did sort of hum. If the look on her face was anything to go by, Ginny was feeling pretty blissed out and relaxed, about to drift off into sleep again. She'd been just about the most angelic baby that Doggett had ever known, as happy to drift off to sleep in Mulder's arms as to fall asleep to nursing. She cried just a little and never for long. And she was glad to be held by just about anyone. Yes, a little lover of a baby. 

It was at this moment that Doggett noticed the similarity between the two of them. That naturally pouting lower lip, lush and rounded, was echoed on Mulder's face, same with the square shape of the face. She opened her eyes slightly, already beginning to turn color from their baby blue to a gray-green, and they were the same as Mulder's eyes. 

"Who was on the phone?" Mulder asked. 

Not sure why he was lying, and even though he was pretty sure it'd be a bad idea to keep this under his hat, Doggett said, "Telemarketer. You want me to take her?" 

"Nah," Mulder said. "If you don't mind. Seems like we're allright here." 

A few days later, Doggett had Dana and Monica over when Mulder was out. He explained the situation to her and what he wanted her to do. 

"You want me to run a DNA test to see if Mulder is her father?" Dana asked, disbelieving. "But John, I was with Mulder when he met you for the first time. You were already, what, four months pregnant?" 

"Five," Doggett said. "Don't you think I know that? I'm grasping at straws here. If Kerry isn't the one, then I've got no idea who it might be. It might just be wishful thinking, but look at her." 

Monica had been cooing over the baby, though obviously still listening to the conversation. Ginny had one of her little fists grasped tightly around Monica's finger. "But John," Monica said. "Lot's of babies have that big lower lip." 

"You don't see it?" Doggett said. 

"I'm not saying I don't. I'm just wondering if more than wishful thinking is going on here. I know that the tests have ruled out Kerry, but is there a chance it might have been some other man at the club that night?" 

"I was drunk," Doggett said. "But not that drunk." 

"Do you have any gaps in your memory?" Dana said. "Is there any chance that someone slipped you a date rape drug?" 

"I drank bottled beer the whole night," Doggett said. "I watched the bartender open each one and they never left my hand. Look, I know it's impossible, but I don't have any other explanations here. I'm just looking for data. Just trying to rule out one of the possibilities." 

Dana sighed. "Fine. I'll do it." 

Doggett held up the two little baggies that he'd prepared for her. "I couldn't get blood, but know that the test can be done on hair. It's from his brush. And this one is Ginny's hair. I couldn't imagine sticking her with a needle again if it wasn't necessary." 

Dana nodded. "I don't really need a sample from Mulder. I've got his analysis on file. I should have the complete results in a couple of weeks, but I'll rush this and get a preliminary as soon as I can." 

* * *

Krycek stared at the mobile hanging over his son's crib. It was moving. He hadn't touched it. It wasn't a slow bobbing in a draft or anything like that. No, there was a definite rotation and medium speed bobbing, as if some unseen hand was causing it to dance. 

It was the middle of the night, and like all new parents, Krycek was engaging in the time-honored tradition of getting no sleep. His baby was a complex one, with odd habits for a baby. He refused to fall asleep in Krycek's arms, it was as if he were afraid to miss even a moment of interaction. The baby was also, apparently, a night owl, given to napping all day and waking all night, and nothing seemed to be able to be done about it. He didn't cry enough, even to the point where it seemed unnatural to Krycek. He would quite happily lay in his bed and watch the mobile for hours. But when he did cry, the mobile would spin like mad, like some gale was blasting through the room. 

The mobile itself was small wooden horses, painted in red and gold lacquer- a pretty, even excessive toy for a child who could probably barely see it. Still, little Innokenty Fyodor, Kesha as they called him, loved it and loved to see it dance. Right now, the child was holding a hand up towards it, as if hoping to pull one of the horses down. And indeed, the horses, one by one, dropped down towards the hand, then popped up out of reach again. 

Kesha seemed...advanced for his age. Shouldn't a baby this age have eyes for nothing but his parent and for the next meal? Krycek thought that he had read in one of Vanya's baby advice books that a child of this age couldn't even really focus yet. But decidedly, the child looked like he was homing in on the mobile. It was worrisome, because though Kesha looked to the surface like a normal boy, reality was that he was something very possibly different. Just how different Krycek was just beginning to gauge. Mulder was an alien-human hybrid, and that might make for some very interesting traits in his child, traits that might prove to be very dangerous. As for Krycek's family traits, who could really say where they came from? Perhaps if his parents had stayed in touch with a grandmother or something, she might have been able to say that they were descended from some forest witch or something. Or perhaps if his parents had been more forthcoming, they might have told some hardly believeable truth about early genetic experiments or something. Perhaps it was the normal closeness of twins, exaggerated. As it was, Krycek had no idea how or why his powers of the mind had come to be. 

Every hour of every day that they stayed in the apartment, though, Krycek worried. This home was an enchanted place. His brother's life was a fairytale, albeit an odd one. But the house itself was beautiful, Vanya's daughter was charming, Tolya was a kind and attentive husband, and it was everything and anything that Krycek could have wished for himself once. But he didn't belong here, and he was starting to believe that Kesha didn't either, that to leave the child here would be to expose this little island of calm to unknown and unthinkable dangers. 

Kesha might have been a night owl, but exhaustion won out over worry for Krycek and he found himself drifting off in the chair he'd pulled up next to the crib. It was a strange night of dreams, none of which he remembered clearly, but he woke at three thirty with a start, scared shitless by a dream that was fleeing away from him even as he startled bolt upright in his chair. Kesha was still watching the spinning mobile, waving his hands at it. Krycek noticed the time, concluded that he'd been asleep in the chair something like half an hour. The mobile was still rotating by the invisible hand, or someone had pushed it again. Krycek would have woken at the first touch of Vanya or anyone else's hand on the nursery doorknob. Therefore, it had to be Kesha pushing the mobile. 

Though he didn't remember the content of the dream, one thing stood out in his mind, as clear as anything ever had. It was a warning, and the only thing to do was get the both of them out of here, away from Vanya and his precious family. It took only a few minutes for Krycek to gather his own few belongings, and a little longer for him to gather the whole baggage train it seemed to take to walk around with a well-equipped baby. Then, another moment to scribble the note and leave it in the crib, in place of Kesha. Krycek hesitated over the mobile, but after a while, he pulled it down and wrapped the horses on their strings carefully around the crossbars that kept it together. Even so, he was gone long before dawn, the only sign that he had been there for months, or even at all, was the note that said, "I'm sorry. I hope you understand what I have to do." 

* * *

In a certain way, it was almost better that they hadn't really had much chance to experience life together before the baby, because that way, there was nothing to mourn, as far as how much things had changed. Because it'd be a lie to say things were easy. It would have been the worst time in his life if he weren't so ecstatically happy. 

Ginny was going through a state where she cried. Lots. With no apparent provocation. She seemed happiest when being held by John. And she must have been going through some kind of growth spurt because she was constantly hungry. 

Mulder had run out to the grocery store, just for a few essential supplies. He set the handful of plastic grocery bags on the table and immediately John was in the room, baby in arms, diaper bag slung over his shoulder. Before Mulder could say anything, not even hi, ten pounds of squirming baby was put into his arms and the diaper bag was draped over his shoulder. 

"Take this baby out of the house, now," John said. 

"What? Huh?" was about all that Mulder could manage. 

"I just need a little sleep," John said. And he did look a bit haggard, and for good reason. Because of the breast-feeding, most of the burden of getting up in the middle of the night was falling on him. Even if Mulder was the one who got up, most of the time what the little mite needed was to have her tanks topped off, so John would have to get up anyway. 

So, it was only fair that John get the nap. "Okay," Mulder said. "Sounds good. What do you think, Ginny? Walk in the park? Maybe we go for a car ride to Alexandria and get a few more of papa's things?" 

After he'd been freed from the UFO, he'd gone home with John, but the majority of his possessions remained at the Hegel place apartment. He'd not even had the time to hire a mover to box everything up, much less sort out what was important to keep, what could be pitched. He wasn't sure if he trusted movers. At the very least, he was going to haul all his important papers over by himself and see that his extensive video collection went into a safe storage location. 

"We'll do both I think," Mulder said to John. "We'll be gone for a while. That okay by you? I'll try and pick up some dinner on the way home." 

"I just fed her. She should be good for a couple of hours at least," John said. Then he added a heartfelt, "Thank you." 

So Mulder loaded Ginny into the car and took off for Alexandria. He had a park not far from Hegel place in mind. He'd passed by it often on his runs and it was a pretty little place, with curving paths and broad swaths of inviting grass. 

She fussed a little in her car seat, but then soon enough, she was silent. Dollars to doughnuts, as John would say, she was asleep in the baby bucket. 

It was an easy trip to Alexandria. Mid-day traffic was light and he flew through it with ease. He went to the park first, seeing as the pale blue sky and started to gather thick dark clouds on the horizon, perhaps the sign of a storm gathering. He wouldn't spend too much time outside. It was August and the air was something like a mug of fresh brewed tea, at least as wet and almost as hot. 

Ginny hadn't been asleep, or if she had, she was wide-awake when he opened the door to the back seat. She was placidly staring into the distance, waiting for him. He strapped Ginny to his chest with the baby bjorn, thinking about how he'd teased Byers before about doing just the same thing, though he liked to think he wasn't quite as incongruous in shorts and tshirt with a baby on his chest as Byers was with a baby bjorn and a suit. He put a little white hat on Ginny, marveling at how small it was. John had shoved it at him at the last minute, saying something about how delicate her skin was. 

"You're such a pretty girl," he said as he adjusted the hat so it would keep the sun out of her eyes. He set off on a rapid walk. He didn't dare jog with her, though he ached for a run. He thought about getting one of those jog strollers he saw women with, for when she was a little larger. 

He cut the walk short after a while, because he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched and followed, which was odd. Ever since being returned from the UFO, he had not felt it once. It had been like he'd been rejected, spit out as being of no further use. But he could feel that familiar eyes on the back of his neck kind of chill right now. He'd kind of liked the feeling that he was no one important and of no further use. Especially because all of his attention was focused on the only important truth now- the child strapped to his body. If only the conspiracy could have guessed that this would be the perfect way to pull his attention away from looking into places they'd rather not have him look into. None of that seemed to matter in comparison. 

He doubled back to the car and off loaded Ginny into the car seat again. His apartment wasn't far from the park and it took just a few minutes to get there. Finding a parking spot took longer. 

In the lobby, he ran into that nosy old bat from the third floor- Mrs. Garringer. He tried to avoid her, but the elevator closed just as he was about to duck into it. He reminded himself to be civil, and that she was just a lonely old woman with very little in her life. He could afford to indulge her just a little. Despite the heat, she had on a very proper tailored coat and a flowered hat. In a death grip she clutched a handbag big enough to be classified as luggage. It fastened with a cross-shaped catch up top and had plastic ring handles. It was a grimy beige that had seen better days but still seemed to be overly proper. 

"Mr. Mulder!" she said, overly dramatic. "We'd all wondered about you. You've been gone so long, it seemed like you fell off the face of the earth." 

He thought about how little he'd been here since he came back from his abduction. "Something like that," he said. "I'm in the process of moving out. I should be gone completely in a month or two." 

"Oh, I see," she said. "You know, I have to tell you, some of the other neighbors will not be sad to see you go. They talk, you know. About how much trouble seems to start in your apartment. All those unfortunate shootings." 

The way she talked made it seem like someone got himself shot in or near his apartment every week. Admittedly, he was connected with a higher than average homicide rate, but he didn't think it was excessive, considering his former profession. Really, it was only a couple of deaths connected with him in the building. 

"Well, I won't be troubling anyone here much longer," he said, gritting his teeth. 

"And this must be..." she said, indicating Ginny. 

"My daughter," he said, staring at the call button as if sheer force of will could make the elevator appear. He was seriously beginning to consider taking the stairs. 

"Oh, you must be moving out to marry her mother," Mrs. Garringer said. "The start of a happy family. You're a lucky man, Mr. Mulder." 

"Actually, I can't get married legally to her other father, the man who gave birth to her," Mulder said. "But yes, I am a lucky man." 

Then, at long last, his savior, the elevator, arrived. The doors opened. He ducked in before Garringer could gather a reply or do more than look shocked, and pushed the button for the fourth floor. 

At the fourth floor, he walked down the hallway, thinking of how X had once dragged himself down it just to collapse and write a clue for him in blood. He thought about what that clue had led him to, all the voiceless little Samantha worker drones. He thought about how unlike that this child was, how she was born from no alien technology or laboratory, but was made in a human womb, conceived, according to John, from a brief burst of alcohol fueled passion between two strangers in that all too human of institutions- a bar. This child couldn't get more human. 

It wasn't until he was nearly on it that he noticed that his door was standing slightly open, and definitely not locked. He froze. In the days before baby, he would have automatically begun a cautious investigation, pulling his gun from his holster and entering the room. He couldn't do that with the precious cargo in his baby bjorn. He would have just walked away and called the police except that from within the apartment, he heard the undeniable sounds of a baby crying. He checked Ginny, just to be sure that it wasn't her, but through it all, she'd fallen asleep. 

* * *

It was true, he needed a nap. He'd been up half the night with the kid. But certain things had to be taken care of before then. He couldn't let this go on any longer. The man had to be told. He'd gotten the results back from the second run through of the paternity test and you just couldn't argue with them. 

As soon as Fox had rolled down the driveway, Doggett got out the phone, settling himself comfortably on the leather sofa of his living room, because it was bound to be a less than comfortable conversation. He hesitated only a moment before dialing. 

"Daniel? This is John Doggett. I got the results of the paternity test back," he began before the man had even a chance to say hello. "I had them run it twice, because I couldn't believe it." 

"What?" Daniel said. He sounded tired and confused and Doggett certain that he'd woken the man. "'I'm sorry. I just got home from a long delivery an hour ago. I'd just fallen asleep. Why did you have to run them twice?" 

"Because it says that you're not the father, Daniel, and that leaves me real confused as to who that might be," Doggett said. 

"Wait a minute!" Daniel said sharply. "I thought you said there wasn't any doubt. The test was supposed to be just a formality." 

"It was," Doggett said. "Look, it's not like the date was off by a couple of weeks. It's like you were the only I guy I slept with that whole calendar year. I don't know how I can explain it, but I had it run twice through the lab the hospital recommended and I'm having it run by someone I know from the FBI just to be on the safe side. You can't argue with the science. You're not Ginny's father. I'm sorry." 

"I want it run through again," Daniel said. "They must have mixed up my blood specimen with someone else's. I want a different lab." 

"If you want to spend the money, you can do that, but I don't think it'll make any difference," Doggett said. "I think something far stranger than mixed up specimens is going on here." 

They ended the conversation shortly after that, leaving Doggett feeling like he was still tangled up in something so strange and big that he could only feel the start of it, like he was some kind of fly, trapped in one far flung corner of a vast spider web. He couldn't even begin to grasp the full truth of it, he thought. But maybe it was time for that nap. He might think a little more clearly if he had a little sleep. 

It wasn't that he wasn't used to sleep deprivation. God knew he worked round the clock on too many cases before. He always believed what Duke had told him- that you didn't clock out until you knew that you'd done all you could do. But the thing about being a father was that you couldn't clock out, whether you'd done enough or not. Not that you could ever do enough. There was always going to be one more diaper to change or one more feeding. And he knew that as she got older, it wouldn't get better, it'd just switch to something else to be worried about besides diapers. 

He'd just stretched himself out on the sofa and closed his eyes when the phone rang. He sighed, then picked it up. As a new parent and still on leave from work, he told himself that he had the luxury of ignoring the phone sometimes. But it was a hard habit to break. His hand had shot out and lifted the phone off the hook before he'd even had the thought that he shouldn't answer it, before he'd opened his eyes even. 

"John Doggett here," he said. 

"Agent Doggett," began the familiar, feminine voice. "This is Dana Scully. I have those test results for you." 

That got him to sit straight up on the sofa. 

"What do you have for me, Agent Scully?" 

"The simple answer first," Scully said. "Yes, Agent Mulder would seem to be your daughter's other father. I found matches in the crucial gene markers that the usual genetics test would look for." 

"You said that's the simple answer. That's implying that you've got a more complex answer too," Doggett said. He wondered what sort of weird explanation Scully might come up for to explain away the fact that he and Fox had never even met until he was already five months into his pregnancy. 

"I think maybe it would be better to show you in person what I mean," Scully said. "Do you think you and Mulder could come in to the Hoover?" 

"No, not Fox," Doggett said. "I don't want to tell him anything until we have clear answers on this and some kind of explanation about what happened, how it could be that he's the father of my baby possibly." 

"John," Scully said. "I think that if anything, we should call on all of the skills we can muster to figure this out, and if anyone can get to the bottom of this, Mulder can." 

"No, I don't want him in this, that's final," Doggett said. "He's been through too much. He's not ready." 

"I think you're wrong, but if that's what you want, I can respect that," Scully said. "When did you want to meet?" 

He made arrangements for her to come over as soon as she could. He didn't know how much longer Mulder was going to be gone with the baby, and he hoped it would be long enough. 

Unable to sleep now, he used the time to tear through the house, picking up everything. It was funny how easy it was to just let the mess slide, and the house to collapse into chaos. It wasn't as if the kid was at the stage where she created messes all on her own. It wasn't as if there was a big mess from the bottles. And it wasn't the addition of Mulder to the household, because as Doggett moved around the living room picking up dishes, books, the newspapers, he recognized them all. Left there by him, not Mulder. In fact, other than a few stray sunflower seed shells he found on the floor by the coffee table, almost all the mess was his own doing. It was like he would start drinking a glass of water or something and just forget that it was there. 

A short while later, the doorbell rang. He peered out cautiously through the peephole. It was his old buddy Knowle Rohrer. Doggett opened the door, but didn't immediately let the man in. There was just something odd about him, Doggett thought. 

"Let me in, John," Knowle said. "I shouldn't be seen talking to you. It could be dangerous for you. But I have important information for you about your baby." 

His first inclination was to just send Rohrer away, but then logic said that maybe, just maybe, the man might know something. If, as Doggett knew in his heart, and Scully seemed to say that the science was indicating, that Mulder was Ginny's genetic father, than he couldn't have done it in the usual, time honored way. There had to be some kind of scientific intervention or something. Maybe Rohrer knew something about that. Doggett stepped out of the doorway and opened it enough for Rohrer to step in. 

"We've been friends a long time, John," Rohrer said. "I know you didn't take my advice about not associating with Mulder. But you need to now. Being around him is a danger to you and your baby." 

"I don't know why you keep saying that. You haven't given me any proof, Knowle," Doggett said, angrily. If he'd known it was just going to be more of this, he'd have left the man standing on his porch, door slammed in his face. "Tell me how Mulder is in danger, and then maybe we might be getting somewhere. He's her father and he belongs here with me and her." 

"Yes, he is her father," Knowle said. "But there's more to it than that. If you want Ginny to be safe, you need to give her to me. I'm the only one that can see that she'll be protected and grow up safely." 

"Whoa! Now wait a minute here! I thought I knew you, Knowle, but you're a stranger to me now. And if you think that I'm just going to up and give my baby to a stranger, after all I sacrificed to get her here, you're nuts. You're crazier than everyone thinks Mulder is." 

Only then did it sink in, what Rohrer had said. Yes, Mulder was her father. He knew. Rohrer knew something that so far only Scully was supposed to know. 

"What do you know? And why are you coming here telling me these things?" 

* * *

The baby's crying out had been deliberate on Krycek's part. He'd pulled his tit out of Kesha's mouth just long enough to elicit the protest, then stuck it back in, silencing the easily pacifiable infant. Krycek needed to have this little conclave with Mulder, but didn't, couldn't, risk there being violence this time they met. Everything was different now. If Krycek had taken a few of Mulder's punches in the past, then that was what it had taken. But Kesha was an innocent and while Krycek doubted that Mulder would be so wrathful as to knowingly strike an infant, it might happen if he was unaware of the presence of a child. 

Yes, a moment later, the door opened slowly. Mulder was being cautious, perhaps the first time in his life that Krycek had known him to be so. But then, hadn't Krycek fanned the flames of Mulder's impetuousness purposefully so often before? 

Mulder sidled into the room, scanned it quickly, soon locating Krycek. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't start spewing the expected invective or accusations. He had a baby strapped to his chest. It must be Doggett's baby, Krycek thought. When he'd followed Mulder around the park, he'd noticed Mulder carrying the child. It'd taken a little while of surveilling the apartment for him to realize that Mulder wasn't there anymore, but only a little while longer to track him down to Doggett's house. So, Mulder had settled down, become a married man, or rather, the closest equivalent, given the situation. A baby changes everything. It was a truism, but only because it was so true. It was good to see that Doggett trusted Mulder with the baby. 

Because that's just what Krycek was going to have to do. 

"What are you doing here in my apartment, Krycek?" Mulder demanded. 

"I thought you'd like to meet your son, Mulder," Krycek said. He pulled back the blanket to reveal Kesha's face. Kesha was contentedly imitating a bilge pump on Krycek's chest, sucking so strongly it almost hurt. "Our son." 

"If I didn't think it before, now I know you're a liar, Krycek," Mulder said. 

"Regardless of what you think of me, he's your son," Krycek said. 

He thought about holding Kesha up so that Mulder could notice the way that Kesha's eyes were just like Mulder's, that the full lips and the square shape of the face were just the same. Anyone looking at Mulder, Krycek and the baby would assume that Mulder was the father, not Krycek. Maybe Krycek should hold Kesha up so that Mulder could see that for himself, but he wasn't about the separate child from tit until the child was ready to go. He wasn't willing to put up with that wailing again. The kid must be fueling up for a growth spurt, the way he was eating these days, as if he couldn't get enough. 

"I never touched you," Mulder protested. "Except maybe in your fervid imagination." 

"You don't even have to ever lay eyes on someone to conceive a child with someone. You should know that, Mulder. And that's just with the technology that the general public knows about. Think about it. Smoking Man had you in his hands not so long ago and had ample opportunity to take a gene sample. This whole parenthood trip isn't something I willingly bought a ticket for exactly. I don't know how it happened. I've narrowed it down to about three days of missing time in September. They must have taken me to a lab and done it then. I didn't choose to make this child any more than you did. But that doesn't change the fact that we've both got an obligation to him now." 

Krycek was prepared for the sharp comment, the usual Mulder malice. He wasn't prepared for the softness in Mulder's voice. He was stunned when Mulder knelt down near the couch and said, "Can I see him?" 

Luckily, Kesha was done with the nipple for the moment and had let it slip from his mouth. He was drowsy, eyes blinking closed and about to shut for a good, long nap, if Krycek knew him. There was a healthy rosiness to his cheeks, and with his hunger fully sated, all was right with his world, so he exuded a certain serenity, so calm that Krycek could only envy that kind of peace of mind. Kesha's eyes shut finally, allowing Krycek to admire the smoky arch of black eyelashes that framed them. Kesha's skin was pale mostly. Kesha had already sprouted a fine crop of dark hair, taking his coloring, if nothing else from the Arntzen family. 

Krycek pulled the blanket a little further aside, revealing the baby. Then he held Kesha out to Mulder, asking for Mulder to take him. 

"I need you to take him," Krycek said when Mulder didn't immediately reach for the child. "Just for a few weeks. I need to find some things out. I can't do what I need to do with a baby strapped to my chest." 

Admittedly Mulder already had one baby in his charge, but as far as Krycek was concerned that made this more than an adequate solution. Doggett trusted Mulder with a baby, and with what Krycek had been able to dig up on Doggett at a short notice, that was saying something. And it wasn't as if Krycek could ask Marita to babysit for a couple of weeks. 

Krycek hadn't realized how he'd been holding his breath until Mulder took the child gingerly. It must have been awkward to wrangle the two babies at once, but Mulder managed it more or less gracefully. 

"This is no ordinary child, Mulder," Krycek said. "You'll see. If I'm not back in three weeks, you'll probably have to consider it a permanent arrangement." 

Mulder didn't appear to be listening. He was busy falling in love, staring into the now wide, open dark eyes of his son. 

"What's his name?" Mulder asked, without taking his eyes off the baby. 

"Innokenty Fyodor. I call him Kesha," Krycek said. He waited a short while for Mulder to pay him any notice, but none was coming. After a short while, Krycek slipped away silently. He thought about the last time he'd confronted Mulder in his apartment- the gun and the kiss. How different that had been. 

That time, he'd walked away feeling triumphant, knowing he'd gotten to the core of Mulder somehow and that Mulder would be doing exactly what needed to be done. This time he ached as he walked away, wondering if he'd be seeing his child again. This, like all the other times, could well work out to be that final, fatal mission. But it had never mattered then like it did now. If he died, what would Mulder tell their child about him? 

And even if he didn't, getting the child back from Mulder wasn't going to be easy. It wasn't as if this was any kind of usual case. They couldn't work out visitation and shared custody. Krycek was going back to Russia with Kesha, once he could assure their safety. 

* * *

Scully looked through the report she'd prepared for John one more time. She could hardly believe it herself, but the science was there. She had proof that this child of Agent Doggett's could not have been a normal conception. That there had to be a technological assist of a kind she could only begin to imagine. 

Scully was just waiting for Monica to get back and then they would go to Doggett's house and tell him about it. Scully was still musing over her report, looking over one last time the orderly rows of DNA sequences when Monica walked in to the basement. 

It seemed strange to be still be in Mulder's office without him, but Mulder had shown no inclination to get himself reinstated and she was coming more and more to the conclusion that he wasn't going to be coming back to the X-files any time soon. Perhaps he might not be back ever. He had found his answers. 

Monica cleared her throat to catch Scully's attention. Scully looked up and said, "I'm sorry. I just can't get over the results. It's just too odd." 

"I'm still not sure I understand your concerns," Monica said. Scully had explained it once to Monica, but perhaps had gotten too technical for the other woman. 

"Looked at genetically, Agent Mulder is not the father of Agent Doggett's child. He's the mother," Scully said. She thought about the dance of genes and life itself, about how sometimes it could seem like humans were nothing more than vessels for genes to recombine and pass themselves on into the future. She believed that there was far more to this than that, that life meant something beyond that continuation, but when she immersed herself so deeply in the science of it, like she had just been doing, she found herself with doubts. 

"Every human has two kinds of DNA. The first is the kind that people normally think of- the nuclear DNA. It makes up the genes that are physically expressed. The genes that determine that you've got brown eyes or blue, basically. Then there's mitochondrial DNA. Among other interesting things that they do, the mitochondria are only passed down in the ova, never the sperm." 

"Mitochondria?" Monica asked. "Aren't they the part of the cell that converts glucose into energy?" 

"Put simply, yes," Scully said. "It's believed that long, long ago, larger one celled organisms swallowed some smaller one celled organisms. But instead of being digested, they somehow forged a symbiotic relationship with the larger organisms. This forged the way for more and more complex forms of life. You couldn't have multicellular life without them, whether plant, animal or human." 

"And they're always passed down from the mother?" Monica said. 

"Yes," Scully said. "If it had been a normal, unassisted conception, you would have expected that Ginny's mitochondral DNA matched that of Agent Doggett's. Not Agent Mulder's." 

* * *

Rohrer wouldn't tell him any more and eventually with only a few more grim warnings about how much danger Mulder was to them, he left, just in time for Scully and Monica to show up. 

Once, maybe, Mulder might have been that dangerous, Doggett thought, but not now. Now, he was just another father. He was no longer searching for the truth that someone, for some reason had wanted to remain hidden. Instead, Mulder, as was Doggett, was finding the much greater truth of love. 

Mulder had been gone a long time, long enough for Doggett to start worrying. Monica and Scully had come with their odd, troubling news and gone already, leaving him plenty of time to fret. He couldn't wrap his brain around it, other than that one fact rang crystal clear- Mulder was, in fact, the child's other parent. 

Of course, accepting that fact opened up a whole different can of worms. Like when and how the conception could have happened. It was one thing to have a more open mind than he'd had before, to have had a miracle cure happen to him. But he wasn't quite ready to admit that he was one of these UFO abductees that Mulder talked about. Someone would have noticed if he'd gone missing, at least he would have. Scully had asked him if he'd had missing time, maybe nightmares of being in a white, bright place where procedures were done to him. He had none of that, nothing that he remembered. 

Finally, after another hour more, the door opened. Doggett didn't have to wait for that though to determine that Mulder was back. The sound of a wailing baby preceded the sound of Mulder walking up the steps. Doggett leaked a little even as he heard the first notes of that wail, his letdown kicking in automatically at the sound. The first time that had happened, it had almost scared him. Now, it was just an irritation. His clean t-shirt dampened at the chest, a dark spot appearing. 

But wait, Doggett thought as the sound of the wailing made its way through the house. It wasn't one baby. It was two crying. What the heck? Had Mulder agreed to sit for the Gunmen and taken baby Harry? 

Finally, Mulder made it to the kitchen where Doggett had been doing a last few dishes, finally getting caught up. And he was, indeed, carrying two babies, both in their little car seat buckets. 

"Sorry I was gone so long," Mulder said, setting both the kids on the floor. "There were complications, to say the least. Here, she's starving." 

Mulder knelt down and got Ginny out of her car seat. The warm, soft bundle of baby was in Doggett's arms in seconds and without even thinking about it, Doggett had pulled up his t-shirt and popped her onto his nipple. 

Mulder bent to the other car seat, unbuckling it, and pulling another baby out. It wasn't baby Harry, not being anywhere near large enough. 

"Who's this?" Doggett asked as Mulder lifted the baby up out of the seat. 

"Innokenty Fyodor Krycek. Known informally as Kesha," Mulder said with an odd mixture of hatred, respect and outright addled love in his voice. Though the hatred seemed to be directed not at the baby at all, but at the man who was the child's father. Mulder grinned at the child with the exact same goofy happiness that he stared at Ginny, in short, Mulder was already besotted with the child. 

The last time Doggett had seen Alex Krycek, the man had been pregnant, but had seemed to have every intention of ending his pregnancy, at any cost, by any means. Had he been unable to find a doctor to do the deed and been forced to carry to term? Or had he chosen not to go through with it? 

"So just how did you end up with Alex Krycek's baby? And shouldn't the baby go to the proper authorities if Krycek abandoned him?" Doggett asked. 

"I'm not sure how I should say this..." Mulder said. He hesitated a while before speaking again. "But it's not abandonment when one parent leaves the child with the other parent. Now, before you jump to any conclusions about what you think I did with Krycek, just remember with today's technology, you don't ever have to even be in the same room with a person to conceive a child with them." 

"You think it was some sort of artificial conception?" Doggett asked, thinking of what Scully had just said to him. Someone or some agency had decided that Mulder's genes were important to reproduce, to the point of taking it into their own hands. 

"Undoubtedly," Mulder said. Meanwhile the baby had continued to cry. The wailing had ended, but the baby was obviously not happy. Furthermore, the clean dishes in the drainer next to where Mulder stood were starting to shake for no apparent reason, kind of like they were experiencing a minor earthquake. Except nothing else was doing the little jiggle dance. Mulder started to struggle with the bags that Doggett just saw now that he had brought in. He was taking out a whole formula and bottle set up. As Doggett watched, Mulder set up a bottle for the kid. He worked pretty fast considering he'd never done it before as far as Doggett knew. 

But once Mulder offered the bottle to the little guy, it was immediately refused. The rubber nipple was spat out immediately as soon as the kid realized it wasn't the real thing and no amount of coaxing on Mulder's part could convince Kesha to take it. Furthermore, the wailing had started up again, to ear-breaking levels. And the dishes on the counter that had just been jiggling were now shaking and jumping. One drinking glass seemed to leap right out of the drainer and land on the floor, shattering. 

Doggett, who had settled himself on a kitchen chair to nurse and watch Mulder, said, "That's one hungry, angry kid if I ever saw one. Hand him here. Let's see if I can do two at once." 

It just seemed the obvious solution. The kid wasn't used to bottles. While Doggett appreciated the assumption that Mulder made, Doggett was glad to nurse his lover's child, in addition to the child they shared. 

Doggett shifted Ginny to a football carry, under his arm and opened up other arm for the other baby. Mulder handed Kesha over and just as Doggett predicted, the baby took the small nipple as soon as it came into the vicinity of his mouth. 

It felt odd, but so natural to have the two of them working the milk bar at once. 

"You don't have to do this, John," Mulder said. "It might not be a good idea to get too attached. Krycek claims he'll be back for Kesha in two weeks and I don't know if I'll be able to stop him from taking Kesha back." 

"I can't let the kid starve even so," Doggett said, even though he knew that already, he'd do anything he could to keep this second baby. That it felt so right. That he'd already fallen in love with Kesha. 

* * *

Ten minutes into the mission, he was sure it was going to be the mission he never came back from. He'd just watched the man he'd unleashed a full clip into get up, seemingly unharmed. All of those shots had gone straight into the man's chest and belly. His abdomen should have been turned into hamburger. Krycek was reminded of the night he had tried to meet the doctor who would have aborted Kesha, and the mysterious, fearless strangers who had hunted them, stopping him. These men were fearless, apparently indestructible. They were the new hybrids, the supersoldiers as they were known. 

Thankfully, Krycek's survival skills had never rested entirely on either brut force or simple firepower. He'd planned his escape route as he took every step and was making his way to it as the guard was climbing to his feet again. Down the corridor, use the card key that a surprising source had gotten to him, then into an unused lab, marked so on the plans that the same unexpected source had given him. 

He was at an industrial park, not far from Falls Church actually. It wasn't far from the four bedrooms, three baths of suburban Virginia, just outside of the beltway. As he caught his breath and scanned the blank walls and linoleum for either threat or something of use, he wondered what the good residents of this bedroom community would think if they knew what was within walking distance of their green velvet front yards. 

He thought about his unexpected source. First he'd gone searching for Marita, and finding nothing of her, he'd gone back to Spender's apartment. No sign that the old man had ever been there. The apartment itself was still vacant, but there was not a scrap of furniture, nor papers, nor anything beyond bare walls and beige carpeting. A dead end, he had thought. 

Until the man approached him as he walked away from the New York high rise where Spender had spent his final days. Obviously this man had been watching and waiting for his opportunity. Krycek had realized he was being followed, and taking the risk because some sense told him that this was the break that he'd been looking for, he'd gone down an alley, possibly trapping himself, but providing privacy among the stink of the dumpsters and gray shadows. 

The man had stayed in those shadows, unwilling to let his face be seen. But the voice was familiar, unforgettable, even as rough as it was. The old man's son. The other one, not Mulder, but Jeffrey Spender. 

"You thought it was all taken care of, didn't you?" Spender had rasped. Something had obviously happened to him, something beyond just being shot and nearly killed by the elder Spender. "You thought the conspiracy was destroyed." 

"The only one that was left was your father, and I took care of him months ago," Krycek said. 

"A new conspiracy has risen in the government," Spender said. "Men who are aliens themselves. This conspiracy is more dangerous than those old fools ever could have been. They can turn humans into...not human, into them. They did this to me. They tried to turn me into one of them and failed. They shot me with something that burned all over, inside and out. And turned me into this." 

With that, Spender had finally stepped out of the shadow, revealing the full awfulness of his transformation. Ropes of scars covered his whole face. One nostril was a giant hole in the side of his face. His scalp was burned beyond recognition as well, covered with scars rather than hair. 

"You should never have brought Kesha to this country, Krycek," Spender said. "He's in danger. They need him, just like they need Agent Doggett's baby." 

"They're still set on colonization?" Krycek had asked. He'd known this was their goal for some time, but it had seemed immensely real and fearful to him for the first time right then. His Kesha would be caught up in it, heir to a world that humanity no longer owned. All he had done to assure the crash and burn of the consortium, he thought, mourning what he had lost to do it, and still it had not been enough. 

"The date is set," Spender said. "The plans are in motion. It will happen." 

"Why are you telling me this?" Krycek had asked. 

"Because I can't do anything about it. You can," Spender had said. 

It wasn't long after that Spender had given over the card key and the plans to the lab where he claimed Krycek could find proof of Kesha's origins. And of Agent Doggett's child's origins as well. It was the same lab that he had claimed to escape from after they had thought him dead, killed in their hellish experiments. 

That was how Krycek had come to be skulking around like a rat in a wood pile, with the cats prowling just outside. The cats, in this case, were inhumanly strong. Unkillable supposedly. They were the new alien threat more dangerous than any of the monsters they'd come up with, if only because there was no way of knowing if a person was one of them. 

And Kesha, according to Spender, was just such a creature himself. 

It made Krycek sick to the stomach to think about. Instead of letting himself be weak, he focused on studying the plan that Spender had given him. He had it loaded onto a PDA, no, not the one he'd used on Walter, that had turned up missing after the time he'd spent in prison. 

The labs on the next level down were most likely to be active and contain what Krycek needed, he decided. It wasn't the level where Spender had been made into a monster, that was even further down. The next level down was where Spender had indicated that he thought they had been conducting embryo experiments. 

He waited a few moments until he heard the heavy steps of the monster move on. He slipped his PDA into his pocket, checked his clip, more for comfort and habit than a belief that the bullets in it would help kill these hostiles, then insinuated himself back out of the room and into the hallway. It was quiet and dark, no sign of the hostiles. He sidled from shadow to shadow, sure that they'd moved on to the next level to look for him there. 

That was he was sure until he was suddenly pulled off his feet and the pressure started. The hostile was trying not just to break his neck, Krycek thought, but to tear his head right off of his body. He had one last weapon he could try. Something that Spender had given him besides the plans. 

It had been a box of smallish, rough red stones. They looked kind of like iron nuggets, Krycek had thought. "They're magnetite," Spender had said. "They must be significant. I found dozens of boxes of them in my father's apartment." 

Of course, even though the old man had been more of a legend in his own mind than any kind of true player of this game of intergalactic cat and mouse, he was a survivor and if he had stockpiled something, it would have to be a weapon or somehow related to saving his own sorry skin. Alex had brought as many of them of the nuggets as he could carry with him on this mission. 

And now was the time. They were either nothing, the signs of an old man's madness. Or they were a weapon. Krycek had been clutching one in his pocket. He tugged it out as the pressure on his neck became nearly unbearable. He pushed it in the general direction of the hostile, hoping he'd somehow hit something vulnerable. Honestly though, he could do little more than scrabble and struggle for breath and hope to keep his head attached to his body. 

It worked though. With a roar of pain, the hostile dropped him. As Krycek sprawled on the tiled floor of the hallway, rubbing his neck and panting for breath, the hostile seemed to tear itself apart from the inside, collapsing as it did. 

It was a systemic failure, breaking the creature down to pieces too small for Krycek to see, perhaps down to a cellular or even molecular level. First there was just a pile of metal things that looked sickeningly like they might be vertebrae. They moved like snakes writhing in agony, until they too were breaking down. Eventually, there was nothing where it had been. 

Krycek took one moment longer to catch his breath, then holstered his gun. He had a weapon here that was far more effective than it. He grabbed another couple of the nuggets from his backpack and put them in the pocket where he would have the easiest reach. 

Right, upstairs to the lab, and maybe, just maybe, he might survive this mission and get back to Kesha. 

* * *

Monica had been going over Dana's reports again and again, trying to wrestle her mind around an idea that had been shyly approaching, but thus far had remained inaccessible to her. It was something significant, she could tell, something big and true, just from the shape it made in her imagination, but as yet it had refused to manifest in conscious thought. 

She looked at both babies' files. Both because a day after they had given John the news about Ginny's paternity, John had brought another baby to be tested, one proclaimed to be Mulder's child, born of Alex Krycek, a man of whom Monica had heard only the wildest of accusations and whispers. And it had been the same. This child, like Ginny, shared Mulder's mitochondrial DNA. 

Why would it have been so important to whoever had created these children that they share the mitochondrial DNA with the same man? It didn't affect anything. It wasn't expressed in the phenotype, that's what Scully had said. It was nuclear DNA that determined that Ginny had sandy brown sparse hair, or Kesha had darker, thicker brown hair. 

Monica looked at the file again, Kesha's this time. Scully was across the crowded office, working on the computer again, writing some kind of report or even just case notes. Monica went back to the file. 

"It's interesting symbolism that this Krycek has chosen to name his child," Monica said. "Fyodor means gift of God. And the meaning of Innokenty is obvious." 

"All children are innocents," Dana said absently, not even looking up from her computer. "They have no choice but to be born into the world that we shape. And even more so with these two, knowing as we do that not even their parents had the choice as to their conception, not the who with or the when or even the why." 

"John fought to keep his baby alive. You saw him at the hospital with the preeclampsia. He chose Ginny," Monica protested. She believed that somehow John must have been yearning for a child so hard that a soul must have been drawn to him, one that fought to be born into the world any way, any how. In essence, though he had not chosen the particulars, he had chosen to create Ginny. 

"I don't deny that," Dana said. "It's just that he didn't chose the circumstances of her conception. We have the proof of that." 

"I wonder how much we should pursue this. I don't think it matters to John how she was conceived, just so long as he knows it was with Agent Mulder." 

"The how is only of marginal interest to him, it seems," Dana said. "But the why is something that I feel we owe him to discover. For Agent Mulder's sake, if not for his." 

And then it was back to silent study. Monica read, and thought of a question she wanted to note on the text. She reached for a pencil, but none came to hand. She searched the desk drawer of the ungainly wooden desk, surely a hand-me-down from the days of Hoover himself. She came up with nothing, not a single writing utensil. Only then did one fall from the ceiling right into her hand. 

It was a coincidence too large for her to ignore. She looked up, as if expecting a rain of pencils on her head. 

A forest of them had been stuck into the ceiling panels directly over the desk, as if one of the two by four pieces of ceiling tile had sprouted a hedgehog made of pencils. Dozens of them, maybe a hundred. She thought about that. 

"Did Mulder do that?" Monica asked Dana, gesturing up at the ceiling. 

"Yes," Dana said. "It'd drive me crazy to come into this office and see him flipping pencil after pencil up there." 

That ended the conversation for a while, and while she tried to think, Monica occupied herself first climbing up on top of the desk and retrieving as many of the pencils as she could, then by attempting to sink at least one into the same ceiling tile that Mulder had sunk so many in. 

"This isn't as easy as it looks," Monica explained sheepishly as Dana looked her way, decidedly irritated. It was then that it hit her, the moment of inspiration that she'd been waiting for, the explanation. 

"Dana, you'd say that Agent Mulder was an extraordinary person, wouldn't you?" Monica asked. 

"In what sense?" 

"In that he seems to make leaps of intuition that turn out to be right very often. So often that it's spooky, right? Isn't that what they called him? Spooky. Not because he believes in aliens, but for the way he could get so deeply into the head of a murderer. Almost as if he were reading their minds. And then there's the way that he put so many of those pencils up into the ceiling. It's not easy to do even just one, much less dozens," Monica said. 

Then to demonstrate, she tossed another up at the ceiling, only to have it connect with a glancing blow that deflected the pencil down to earth again. "What if it does mean something that both Ginny and Kesha have Mulder's mitochondria? You said that the mitochondria's main function is to provide power to the cells. And I've also heard it said that the reason human beings aren't able to show extrasensory powers, telekinesis and the like, is that the human body can't produce that much energy. What if Mulder were an X-file himself? That by some chance or even by design, his mitochondria are just much more numerous or efficient or something. What if they can produce that kind of power?" 

"Monica," Dana said. "Mulder is an incredibly talented profiler. He is not able to read the minds of criminals." 

"But what about that case with the cloth hearts?" Monica said, suddenly reminded of it. "He himself claims that some kind of nexus was formed between himself and the killer. He seemed to imply that the link was formed from the killer's mind, but isn't it more logical that they both had some sort of ability to reach out that was beyond normal. You can't just plug an appliance into the wall. You've got to have an active socket wired to a power source. 

"Just hear me out. What if Mulder were that active socket? And that whichever forces, government or otherwise, created Ginny and Kesha hoped that they could reproduce those kind of talents or even expand on them? You've been around the children. Don't tell me you don't notice how things around them move around when they're unhappy?" 

"It's coincidence, Monica. Nothing that can't be explained by someone knocking the table," Scully said. "Or some other similar event. There is no scientific proof for babies having the ability to move things without touching them." 

"No, that's it. That's why they were created. That's why the two separate fathers were chosen, because of some quality that they possessed that it was believed might enhance Agent Mulder's talent given to him by his overactive mitochondria. That has to be. Why else go to such trouble to make sure his children get those mitochondria? Using technologies beyond what is public knowledge when if it was simply his nuclear DNA they wanted to pass on, they could have just made him a father and used a simple donor sperm procedure." 

"Monica, I will concede that someone or some agency had reason to want to pass on Mulder's mitochondria," Dana said sharply. Monica wondered if Scully would ever concede a truth that took her out of her comfort zone of science and logic. "But other than that, there is no proof for your wild speculations." 

"There is, somewhere," Monica said. "And I'll find it." 

* * *

Mulder turned in bed yet again, uneasy for reasons he could not articulate, nor even begin to put to rest. Ostensibly, it was just too hot to sleep, but it was more than that. He hadn't slept all night though dawn would be painting its rosy brush across the sky in a short time. 

John slept oblivious nearby, the sheet wrapped around his legs, pulling it off of Mulder, who was glad to be rid of it. The air-conditioning had gone out earlier in the evening and they had a pathetic box fan in the window as the only comfort on this night so humid and warm that it almost hurt to breathe. The fan created a lazy breeze that lifted the misery of the heat only slightly. The babies had fussed with the heat most of the night and even now one of them stirred and groused slightly, then drifted to sleep again before she could wake up enough to start full lunged crying. 

John had always used to sleep on his back, Mulder thought as he looked at the man. But now John was curled on his side, away from Mulder and facing towards the cosleeper where both the babies slumbered. 

John had bought an expensive crib with all the resquisite carved spindles and crib bumpers in pink and then within a few weeks of Ginny's birth had decided it wasn't working out, that she was just too small to sleep in such a massive crib by herself. But John hadn't wanted Ginny in their bed either, perhaps afraid of her falling off. And so the co-sleeper had appeared one day, a sort of crib that attached directly to a larger bed. Now both babies slept in it, just an arm's reach away, but safe in their own separate space. 

Even though Mulder had made no motion or noise, John stirred. He rolled over onto his back and wiped at his forehead. "It's hot as the devil's sauna in here," he said. "I'm sweating in my sleep. If the guy can't get out here tomorrow, we'll spend the night at a hotel." 

"John? Why can't we just go with an emergency service? I'll pay the extra," Mulder said. 

"It's just that I trust this guy," John said. "I've been using him since I came to the area." 

He wondered if he should explain to John how even if you thought you knew someone for years, used their services for years, that you still couldn't trust them. That the conspiracy reached so far and so deeply that even the reputable air conditioning guy you'd used for years might be using his access to plant bugs in your house. But maybe John didn't mean that. Mulder decided that John just meant trust in the simple fact that he knew the guy would do a good job. 

They both lay on their backs for a while, saying nothing. Mulder stared up into the darkness, assuming that John was doing the same. He thought briefly about suggesting that they move the kids over to the crib in the nursery. 

But no, he decided. It was too hot even to touch, much less think about doing that. Even as he grew hard at the thought, his body rebelled at the thought of other sweaty skin touching it. He couldn't make himself roll over or even form the words to suggest they do so. 

Instead, he found himself asking a question that had been kind of nagging at him for a while, something he hadn't brought up though, because it was a sensitive subject and also one that was John's and John's alone, in the end. There was that other man. The one who had fathered Ginny in the back room of a gay bar. The one that Mulder couldn't help but feel jealous of for this biological connection to the child that Mulder loved as if she were his very bones. As if feeling the weight of his thoughts, Ginny moved, gasped slightly as if about to cry, but then sighed and drifted to sleep again. 

"When were we going to hear from Daniel's lawyer about setting up visitation and things like that?" Mulder asked. 

"We're not," John said. "I haven't been sure how to tell you this. That's why I've put it off. But Daniel isn't Ginny's father. DNA testing ruled it out. Which would be great, except it means that my memory of that night probably isn't what happened at all." 

But Mulder didn't have the chance to ask any more questions. There was a sharp tap on the bedroom window, like someone throwing a pebble against it. Dawn was just starting to light the sky, turning it from black against the windows to a steel gray. Mulder could just barely see John turn to him in a silent question. 

Mulder took it as a signal to cautiously approach the window, to see if he could see what or who had made the noise. He peeked around the frame and caught just a glance of a figure standing in the yard just below the window. He ducked back out of sight, but the bullets failed to fly through the window as Mulder half expected, so he risked another glance. 

It was Alex Krycek, looking half dead. Even in the dim light of early morning, Mulder could see that Krycek was bleeding from a head wound, or just had been recently. Krycek was having trouble keeping his feet and after a short while he collapsed down onto a lawn chair. 

Mulder had a fleeting, childish thought that he had an excuse now to shoot Krycek and get away with it scot-free. He had a gun, the Walther that he used to carry on his ankle, within reach, in the drawer of the beside table. As far as anyone knew, Krycek was an unknown intruder in the middle of the night and hadn't Mulder experienced enough of those who had proved to be almost lethal? But no. Mulder pushed away that dishonorable impulse. If nothing else, forgetting that his goal, when he could forget about his anger, was to bring Krycek to justice, he knew the truth would eventually come out. It always did. Yes, it might save a world of misery short term, but would Mulder ever be able to look Kesha in the eye and say, 'I shot your father'? No, he didn't think he could. Nor did he think he could hide it, knowing all that his father had concealed from him. 

"Krycek is back for Kesha, it would appear," Mulder said, a hollow feeling of loss already settling in behind his ribcage. 

"What are we going to do?" Doggett asked. 

"What can we do?" Mulder answered. Of course, he had totally ignored his own advice not to get attached. Not that John had paid it any more attention. "I'll go let him in. He's wounded. He'll need help." 

Mulder rolled out of bed and pulled on the thin yellow pair of pajamas he'd tried to sleep in earlier but had pulled off in hopes that it'd be a little cooler. He added a thin t-shirt and called it dressed enough for now. 

He flew down the stairs double time. Though he was out the back door in just moments from the time he'd first seen Krycek, the man had already collapsed onto the grass not far from the deck. Mulder knelt next to the man. 

He checked Krycek to see if he was breathing. Yes, Mulder thought, as saw Krycek's chest fall up and down. Krycek was a lot thinner than Mulder remembered him, and as he lifted Krycek's hand to check for a pulse in the wrist, Mulder was surprised by the delicate feel of it. The only extra flesh on the man was the slight bulge of flesh at his chest- breasts not completely disappeared though it must have been nearly a month since he nursed a child. 

Krycek's eyes flew open after a moment of Mulder's touch. He ripped his hand out of Mulder's. "I'm just exhausted," he snapped. "The head wound is superficial. But it's been over seventy-two hours since I slept and I've been constantly on the move." 

But Mulder could see, even in the early light of dawn, black and gruesome looking bruises clustered around Krycek's pale neck and though what had looked like a bad, huge cut from afar seemed to be just a large shallow scrape closer up, Mulder was still worried for the man. 

"Let's get in the house, and you can explain just where you were for the last month," Mulder said. 

"Right away," Krycek said. "We can't afford for me to be spotted." 

Once inside, Krycek made his way, as if on some kind of homing beam to it, right to a couch. He more collapsed onto it than sat on it, a limp bonelessness overtaking him. But even as he seemed to surrendering to sleep, he said, "Bring Kesha to me." 

But before Mulder could even reply, much less go and get the infant, Krycek was asleep, completely oblivious to the world. John came down a moment later, one baby in each arm. The babies were both awake, Kesha squalling at record decibels. Ginny was offering a softer harmony of screams, less angry but probably offended by the noise. As John entered the living room, even though it should not have been possible, Kesha seemed to crane around as if looking for someone. Mulder wondered if shouldn't babies that old still be struggling with the simple tasks of focusing and holding up their own heads. John stared at Krycek sleeping on the couch. 

"He's back," John said flatly. 

"He's back," Mulder answered, not sure if anything else he could say was equal to the situation. 

"So, are we going to continue to harbor a known felon?" John asked. "Though it does seem kind of cold to arrest the other father of your baby." 

"If it makes you feel better, he's never been convicted in a court of law that I know," Mulder said. "I suppose that innocent until proven guilty should even apply to him." 

John had been trying all the usual way to quiet Kesha, including the one that almost always worked- offering him a breast, but he spat that out and resumed screaming again, this time so furious that his back arched, his face was bright red. And the pictures hanging on the wall were bouncing on their nails. Nothing else moved though. Just the pictures. John raised his eyebrows and kept working at calming the babies. Krycek didn't stir. Who would have ever thought that John would have gotten the point where he just seemed to accept something like this without comment? They'd seen this sort of thing from the babies a lot by now, and John had never argued that they didn't cause it. 

"I think he wants his dad," John said finally. "You know this kid. Accept no substitutes." 

With that, John sighed heavily, then laid the baby on Krycek's chest. Kesha quieted with only a whimper or two, with Ginny following suite just a moment later. 

"So, what do we do now?" John asked. 

"Wait," Mulder said. "Let him catch up on some sleep. Then we see what happens. Now what was that you were saying about Ginny not being Daniel's daughter?" 

* * *

The last eleven months or so, since that night in October had been as if his whole life, mind and belief system had been torn apart and then repacked into a completely different set of boxes in a completely different order into something that was at once so unrecognizable, but still strangely familiar. 

Fox was waiting for his answer and Doggett had none for him, only more questions. 

Still, Doggett decided it was time to share what little he did know with Fox. Perhaps the man could start to make some sense of it. Monica had called him the other day, babbling some crazy theory about how this had happened because "they", whoever they were who had done this to him, wanted to propagate Fox's mitochondria to create psychic superbabies. He could accept that someone had a reason to pass on Fox's genes, but Monica was just stirring up waters that were already as clear as mud. 

"Daniel isn't Ginny's father," Doggett said, starting at the beginning again. "Genetic tests confirm it. Of course, this casts my memory of what happened last Halloween into doubt, because that was the only time I had sex with anyone for months and months. And I didn't have sex with anyone else between you and Daniel. But I'm not sure that would make a difference, because I had Scully run her own set of genetic tests. And among other things, they prove that Ginny couldn't have been a natural conception. I asked her to keep it from you. I didn't want to tell you until I had answers, but it seems that the closer we look, the more confusing things get. 

"Because I had her run the paternity test on some other man, just on an impulse. On a gut instinct. And we found out who Ginny's other father is." 

Fox had been listening with his whole attention riveted on what Doggett had to say, but at this moment, his eye's focus went soft, turning inwards to think, perhaps. Doggett waited patiently for Fox to come back from whatever inner landscape he was wandering through. 

A moment later, Mulder said, "You know, I always thought she looks remarkably like baby pictures of my mother. So I guess that makes sense, doesn't it? Because she's mine, isn't she? Just like Kesha is." 

Doggett just nodded. Of course Fox would have figured it out in just a few minutes. 

"At least we don't have to worry about Daniel trying to edge his way into our family," Fox said, with palpable relief. It was only then that Doggett remembered just how much this meant to Fox. That just a few months ago, he was a man completely without family- his sister, mother, father, all gone. Of course it would mean the world for him to know that no interloper could hope to take his place in this house. 

"As if that was ever really a worry, Fox," Doggett said. "He had no place here." 

After that, it was just a normal morning. Well, mostly. There was still a sleeping Krycek to be tiptoed around, though surprisingly, Kesha slept as long as Krycek did, through the morning and into the afternoon. 

They didn't talk any more about the morning's revelations or even more tellingly, about what they would or would not do when Krycek attempted to take Kesha away with him. It was something just too hard to think about. For a moment, Doggett let himself think about it as he finished up breakfast dishes. He could picture himself begging Krycek to stay, that he'd already lost one son, and he couldn't stand to lose another again. But he couldn't wish that on Krycek either though. He cut himself off at that point and forced himself to think of something else, anything else. 

At three in the afternoon, Krycek started to stir, probably because of the slight sounds that Doggett could not avoid making as he neatened up the living room. 

First Krycek just brushed an arm up to his chest as if to see that Kesha was still sleeping there, then with one suddenly, frighteningly swift motion, Krycek was sitting upright on the sofa, Kesha in his arms, eyes wide open and scanning the room. He relaxed from this alert pose only after a moment, probably having to ascertain that he was someplace safe first. 

"I'm dried up. We'll have to feed him formula or whatever it is you've been feeding him," Krycek said, as Kesha started to wake, sniffling as if in preparation for a good hard cry. Doggett recognized the sound sequence. It would be a less than a minute to a full lunged cry unless something was put in his mouth. 

"We tried formula, several times," Doggett said. "He wouldn't take a bottle. But I couldn't let him starve." 

Then without more apology, Doggett pulled up his shirt and put Kesha up to nurse. Krycek winced once, as if in some kind of pain. Doggett understood. It would kill him to see someone else do this for his kid, even if he could recognize that it was better than that they starve. 

"Where's Mulder?" Krycek asked. 

"Upstairs, changing Ginny, giving her a little washup. She had a diaper leak," Doggett said. "He should be down in a moment." 

The poopy diapers were something that Doggett could never really get used to, but Mulder changed them with aplomb, as if it were just another day on the job, something no more distasteful than making a phone call. Maybe his time on the X-files had inured him to it. Doggett had heard from Monica some of the details of some of Mulder's more spectacular cases. Bile and mysterious green slime had nothing on the average baby diaper. 

A moment later, Mulder did show up, Ginny in arms. "You're awake," he said to Krycek. "Where were you all this time?" 

"Not far from here at first," Krycek said. "But then I had to go further afield. I found some things out. I found a weapon that can protect our children." 

Krycek dug into the battered backpack and produced a couple of fist sized stones. He tossed one to Mulder. 

"Rocks?" Mulder said derisively. "Or is this another one of your schemes. You're going to use me again to get one of these out of the country. I'm not going to be that same fool twice." 

"It's neither, Mulder," Krycek said. "It's magnetite. And it kills the new hybrids. Nothing else will. And there's more." 

Krycek brought something else out of his bag. It was a vial, the kind that you'd draw an injection from. 

"In here I have the thing we need to protect our children. To make them normal," Krycek said. "Mulder, the date is set. Colonization will happen." 

Krycek paused to look at Kesha, who was still suckling peacefully. He stood up and touched the baby's belly. "And these are tools that will allow them to do it. These and the other children they've made. We owe it to our children to stop them. I don't know about you, John Doggett, but I did not labor over eighteen hours and nearly die giving birth to bring into the world a child destined to be nothing but a slave and tool." 

Suddenly, understanding gelled, every thing that he had felt uncomfortable or suspicious about had made sense. Why they would have gone to such lengths to construct the child he had born. Why Ginny seemed so unusual. Even why Knowle Rorher had shown up so many times, trying to get his hands on the child, and to make Doggett suspicious of Mulder. But before Doggett could give voice to his new understandings, Krycek laid out the case even further. 

"They're creating a new race of hybrids," Krycek said. "Some of them they've made, injecting people with a virus that turns them into unkillable killing machines. And sometimes, they're making them from scratch-babies, our babies. Others. Most of the parents are unsuspecting women, actually. I've got lists of the obstetricians involved. A couple of androcologists too." 

"You said you've got lists?" Doggett demanded, thinking suddenly about a certain ob in particular. It would explain a lot of things somehow. 

"Later," Krycek said. He'd dug back into his pack and pulled out a huge hypodermic needle in sterile wrap. "I've got to administer this to Kesha. I'd advise you to the same to your girl, but I can't force you." 

"The hell you'll shoot some unknown substance into my son," Mulder threatened. 

Krycek's face darkened with wrath and for a moment, Doggett was sure it wasn't words, but blows that would be exchanged in his living room. But Krycek looked up at Kesha a moment, as if drawing strength from the baby. He calmed, his face turned placid again. He dug further in the backpack and pulled out two discs. One had "Fight the Future" scrawled in black marker on the front. Doggett couldn't see a label on the other one. "This is it, Mulder. All the proof you need. We have the weapons now. We can fight them. And I'll be damned if I let you stop me from saving my, our son." 

* * *

If you could believe even half of what that liar said, this was still the most explosive, fantastic information that had ever come his way, during all his years on the X-Files. And yet, for some reason, Mulder believed it all. Despite the source perhaps. 

Mulder couldn't open the one disc, the first one, which was labeled "Fight the Future". 

John had said, "I've seen something like that before. It had heavy duty encryption. Monica and Scully couldn't make heads or tails of it and it was just too dangerous to get the Gunmen involved." 

But the second disc appeared to be project notes, not encrypted. He'd opened up the files on his laptop and begun scanning the massive quantity of text information while Krycek slept more and John took care of the babies. 

There were the promised lists of doctors involved, with addresses even. Hundreds of them scattered across the country. 

Mulder scanned the list quickly first for one name. Koskiusko. John's doctor. No sign of it. But there was another familiar name on the list. 

As if John had been hovering, waiting for this discovery, he was right at Mulder's shoulder as Mulder had made a huffed exhale at the discovery. John had been walking Ginny up and down across the living room, to the kitchen, even though she wasn't fussy. But he was right there even before Mulder looked up. 

"It's Daniel, isn't it?" Doggett asked. "You found him on the list, didn't you?" 

Mulder nodded mutely, but found his voice seconds later, "How did you know?" 

"Things that didn't make sense sort of make sense when you consider it," Doggett said. "I got drunk. Really drunk that night. I took a taxi home, at least I assume I did, because I don't actually remember the taxi ride home real well. He must have picked me out in the club, then picked me up when I staggered out the door. He was the only one who got close enough that night to drug me. And he did get close. He could have had me for as long as eight hours, because I woke up in my bed at eight the next morning, but I don't remember getting there. I just wonder whether they picked me out before hand, or was I an impulse. Doesn't matter though. I should thank him for giving me her. You know, he's probably feeling kind of betrayed by whoever is in charge. He really thought that Ginny was his. I don't think he would have pushed for a genetic test if he didn't." 

"Maybe we can use that somehow," Mulder wondered out loud. Then, for the moment, there seemed nothing left to say. 

For a long time they were silent, looking at each other, before John gave voice to the silent question that each of them had been thinking. "Should we do it? Give her this stuff that Krycek wants to give her?" 

"I don't know," Mulder said. "I don't have enough data yet." 

"Do we even trust what information he's given us?" John asked. 

"I don't know," Mulder admitted. "But I do know this. He wants to give that stuff to Kesha. And you can see, just from looking at the man. He'd lie and kill to protect Kesha, but he'd never harm him. That's a point in favor of giving the stuff." 

"You're going to let him do it to Kesha, aren't you?" John asked, with more than a little accusation in his voice. 

"I don't see that I have any choice. I don't see how I can stop him. And I don't see how I can stop him from taking Kesha away," Mulder said. 

"Maybe we can't. But maybe we could convince Krycek to stay," John said. 

* * *

Krycek had been feigning sleep in the living room, having just woken up. Mulder and Doggett were talking quietly and Krycek could barely hear, but one thing did come through loud and clear. 

Doggett said, "But maybe we could convince Krycek to stay." 

He didn't mean that. He couldn't. All it meant was that he hadn't been poisoned by Mulder's hatred yet. And even if he did mean it, how could it possibly work? He'd have to disabuse Doggett real quick that they could all get along like some kind of extended happy family. Krycek wasn't exactly going to buy the house next door and they'd all get together for Sunday dinner. 

For a moment, Krycek allowed himself a thought of his home back in Russia with Vanya, Tolya and his two nieces. It had been a precious haven, more peace than he had ever thought he could have or deserved. Russia was the only place where his life had made sense. Where he could be among those who knew that killing was not always malice or madness but sometimes tragic necessity. His thoughts in Russian were far more comfortable than the expansive twistedness that was the English language. He could think equally fluently in both, but Russian thoughts were somehow more truly his. 

As soon as he could, he'd administer the magnetite to Kesha, they'd be on a plane back to Moscow. Kesha would be going back to his brother. He'd live a normal life as a normal child. Well, as normal as things got there anyway. And then Krycek would be fighting the future, whether he got Mulder's help or not. 

He thought about something he'd said to Marita once, a meaningless boast born of lust and nothing more. He'd claimed he was going to rule the world one day. Now, he had no such illusions. The most he could hope for, the thing that he had to do, was to make the world safe for his son. That would be enough. 

"I hope you don't think I'm going to hang around here playing house with you," Krycek said to Doggett as he got up and walked over to where they were huddled by the computer. "When it's safe. I'll send you an address in St. Petersburg where you can write. A relay. Kesha won't be there, but the person you'll be in contact with will know how to reach the place where Kesha will be." 

He'd slept enough finally, so despite his body aching from all the abuse he'd put it through, from those still black bruises on his throat, all of that, he felt pretty good. He was ready to pick up the fight again. He was going to do it and get on to Russia. 

Except that Kesha, who he'd been holding more or less since he'd gotten there, started crying suddenly. Krycek could feel the cause, strong hunger, as if it were his own. And what he could also feel were the primitive impressions and thoughts from a barely formed mind, from an intelligence just only aware of itself. Kesha, wanting the breast, food and comfort. But more specifically, Kesha wanting John. Krycek had felt it before when he'd woken the first time and Kesha had needed to be fed. He hadn't been able to control the wince when he had felt the flood of relief and love coming from Kesha, directed at John, when that breast was offered. Telepathy with babies had its distinct disadvantages. 

John looked at Krycek and said, "Well, sounds like it's time for me to play house. I guess I'll be the mommy. Did you want to play the deadbeat daddy again, Krycek?" 

"That's not fair," Krycek said. "You don't know what's really going on. How much is at stake here." 

"I know, Krycek," Doggett said. "Believe me. I know. Maybe I don't know the exact where's and why's of this invasion. But this much I know is true. That baby needs me. But he needs you too. And he needs Fox. And why, if we can avoid it, would we deny him any of us? And I know all of us would do anything for him. 

"Besides, I want your help with something. I'm going to have a little chat with Daniel Kerry, the guy who thought he was Ginny's father. Who just happened to show up on that little list you gave us. And I don't think I can count on Fox to be vicious enough to help me. I think being a dad has mellowed him out." 

It was enough. He'd stay for a while. You had to start dismantling the system somewhere. Why not pick up the thread of this Daniel Kerry and see how far he could unravel it. 

"What did you have in mind?" Krycek asked. 

* * *

The next day, starting early, but going on into the late afternoon, they had a war council, sitting around Doggett's living room. Scully and Monica were there, the Gunmen and Skinner. The discs that Krycek had brought had been produced and compared against the other disc that Doggett had received a few months ago. Byers and Frohike were studying them both intently. 

Take out containers of all kinds cluttered the top of Doggett's sturdy and usually spotless coffee table. There were the remains of Chinese food, a pizza and a bucket of fried chicken. And the slight aroma of vomit hanging in the air. 

Langly had been sick, right in Doggett's living room. Just a little bit had escaped onto the carpet and had been cleaned up, though the odor lingered slightly. Langly was pregnant again, so it seemed, something that was announced in response to his bolting for the nearest sink when he opened up one of those little white cartons of Singapore style rice noodles. 

Langly was still feeling queasy and had gone to lie down. Byers and Frohike worked on the disc, but Langly really was the best hacker of the three and real progress on the decrypting would have to wait until he was ready to face work. 

Monica and Scully were in quiet conference with Skinner, probably talking about what, if any, official involvement the Bureau should have with all of this. None as far as Doggett was concerned. This little talk he was going to have with Daniel was just between them. 

A momentary lull stilled everyone's conversations and they all looked up, as if wanting to find some clue to bring it all together, but finding none, they dove back down to their individual talks. 

Doggett watched Byers look in the direction of the stairs where Langly had gone. "I should check on him," Byers said. It was said with the distinct ring of guilt. "He really dislikes the first trimester. It's not just morning sickness for him. It's all day sickness." 

As Byers got up, Doggett said, "I thought you guys said you were done with having babies after Harry." 

"We did say that," Byers said, sounding distinctly uncomfortable, even embarrassed. He indicated that he wanted to walk outside of earshot of most of the gathered company. So Doggett walked with Byers to the stairs. Once they were halfway up, Byers continued, "Richard had requested I get a vasectomy, a decision I concurred with. It should have been effective before Harry was born and I had gotten a clean sperm count. But they had used a new procedure, supposedly as effective while being more reversible. Unfortunately, it seems it has reversed itself, something not uncommon to this new procedure. I gather there was a bad batch of the clips used in the process. Apparently there's even a class action lawsuit now." 

"And so it's number five for you and Langly," Doggett said. 

"Five and six," Byers said with a slight gulp and quaver that disappeared bravely seconds later. He squared his shoulders and continued up the stairs. Doggett felt sorry for the man. Twins. He had to be in primo trouble with Langly. 

Suddenly, Alex Krycek was at Doggett's side. They stood in the hallway together, looking at each other. Krycek said, "You know all of this talk isn't really getting us anywhere. At least not with your immediate objective. What we need to do shouldn't be hard. Get the man alone, in some kind of vulnerable position. A few threats later, he'll be singing the song you want to hear. I know these types. I've worked with them. Killed them when the job called for it. They're cowards mostly, and absolutely opportunists. A kindergartener could manipulate them." 

"So?" Doggett asked. 

"Call your doctor. Set up a meeting. Go," Krycek said. "I'll follow you there and we'll take care of things." 

Perhaps it was madness to agree to it. But Doggett too, was sick of all this talk, especially when he itched to get some answers from the man who'd betrayed him like that. 

"Would you do it?" Doggett asked Krycek. "Take revenge on the guy who set you up to the take this daddy trip? Assuming you know who did it." 

"I did," Krycek said. "It didn't make anything better but I'm still glad I did it." 

"Let's do this," Doggett said. He reached for his phone and at the same time, stepped out onto the porch. For some reason, he wanted to make this call where Fox couldn't hear him. If only because he was going to imply to Daniel, without actually lying to him that he wanted to get together, and for more than a talk about DNA tests. 

Dialing was easy. Even waiting for an answer was not fraught with anxiety. But once the phone was picked up and Doggett heard, "Daniel Kerry," said with the patient voice of someone used to calls at all hours of the night and day, Doggett froze. 

At least it was just an awkward minute. He could force himself to speak after just a short while. "Daniel," he said. "This is John. I was hoping we could get together. And talk about things." 

"I think you made it quite clear that there wasn't anything more to say between us," Kerry said, but Doggett could read the pleading in there. The refusal was in the words, but the tone told Doggett that what Kerry wanted to hear more than anything was a reason for there to be something more to say. Any reason would do. 

What would be the best bait for this hook though? Not sure what devil prompted the thought, Doggett decided to play the sex card. Though they'd only done it once, any time he'd been in the same room with Kerry, there'd been that hanging between them. Kerry would fall for that bait, hook, line and sinker. 

"It's more than just talk, Daniel," Doggett said. He let his voice drop low and urgent, like he was whispering and hoping that someone in the next room wasn't hearing. "I've been missing you. I think I made a mistake. There are certain needs a man has. Fox hasn't touched me since I gave birth. I don't think he really understood what I am and now it really bothers him. I think seeing me give birth really freaked him out and I think he's leaving me. But I know you understand me and what I am." 

Kerry, Doggett thought, couldn't fail to fall for that. Kerry was one of the group of men who were attracted to men who were androfecund. Many of those men didn't even think of themselves as gay, just a different type of heterosexual. 

Doggett had found out over the course of those weeks during Fox's disappearance just how much Kerry was attracted to him. Kerry had tried to court him then, and Doggett thought it would be easy enough to give the man those kinds of hope again. 

"That's not uncommon," Kerry said. "You know that more commonly than not, gay men of the regular persuasion leave their androfecund partners in the first year after they've had a child together. All the more reason why you should have chosen someone like me instead of him. I do understand, John. What I don't understand is why you aren't willing to let us do another DNA test at an independent lab. You said yourself, there could be no other person who could be Ginny's father but me. And I believe you." 

"Maybe we could talk about that," Doggett said. "Can you meet me? Can we get together sometime?" 

"We shouldn't," Kerry said. Then there was a breathy pause from the man. "But I really want to." 

"Please, Daniel," Doggett tried his best to imagine what a man desperate for a booty call would sound like and then project that into his voice. "Say you'll meet me tonight. Alone. A hotel." 

"Tonight," Kerry agreed, then named a hotel and a time, perhaps a little too fast. He'd obviously been thinking about it. Maybe even had some fantasy about it. 

When Doggett hung up and put the phone back into his pocket, he shook his hands as if he could knock off the feeling of slime that coated him. "I can't believe I just did that," he said to no one in particular. When he looked up, he noticed Alex Krycek staring at him expectantly. 

Krycek was a beautiful man, Doggett noticed, really looking at him for the first time. The porch light gleamed off of his brown hair. His face was maybe a little more pretty than Doggett preferred, but tragedy and experience had written an interesting story on it. And the wry smile was kinder than Doggett would have expected. "Your moral dipstick feeling just a bit drier?" Krycek asked. 

"Nowhere near bone dry yet, but I could use a top up," Doggett said, appreciating the metaphor. "By the way, just what is this juju going on between you and Fox anyway?" 

"There's a lot of history between us, you could say," Krycek said. "He hasn't told you any of it?" 

"Just that you're a known felon and aren't to be trusted," Doggett said. 

"I'm surprised he hasn't told you more. Filled your head with all kinds of stories about me, some true, some not," Krycek said. 

"Well," Doggett asked, more curious than ever. "What's true?" 

"That I killed his father," Krycek said. It wasn't quite a flinch, but some emotion crossed Krycek's face, part regret, part lingering anger. "Both the man who he thought of as his father and the man who actually was his father. That I've been a soldier in a war that not even Mulder understands. And that all I've been living for is the time when it's over and I can go home. That what I told him years ago still holds true, that we all have one choice- to resist or serve. And the only thing I really know for sure is true is that I would kill again or die to protect my son." 

"So, what did you intend to do with your son, while you're busy resisting?" Doggett asked. 

"I have a brother in Russia. My twin actually. He has a family there with connections to powerful people." 

"You mean the Russian mob," Doggett said, not able to contain the condemnation. 

* * *

If Mulder had said it, Krycek would have just brushed it off, but somehow, from Doggett's earnest righteousness, it stuck with Krycek. It wasn't so much that he felt judged and found not worthy. It was more like he saw what Doggett was thinking. And from that point of view, Krycek found himself wondering if Kesha would be as safe with his brother as he was telling himself. His brother's life must surely be fraught with its own perils. 

"Yeah," Krycek said softly. "Those would be the people. It's not that I trust them. It's my brother. My twin that I trust." 

"But do you trust him more than you trust the other father of your child?" Doggett asked. 

"I don't know," Krycek said, and he didn't. 

"And surely you know in Russia that boys who turn androfecund as teenagers are segregated into separate schools, schools that are far substandard. And Kesha has a fifty percent chance of having his change by sixteen. Who knows? Maybe better than that. And he'll be considered a woman, legally, socially to some extent. You know that, right?" 

It hadn't been first and foremost on his mind, but Krycek admitted that yes, he did know that. It bothered him some, but not so much as the thought of his son remaining here in the states. 

"Not that I have anything against women, or that I think it'd be a step down or whatever to be one. But I'm a man," Doggett continued. "And I know I wouldn't want a son of mine to be considered a woman. Or my daughter to be called a man." 

"Okay, so Russia isn't as enlightened as you are here in the United States, where you all pretend that just because the natural order of the universe is turned on its ear, that doesn't really change anything," Krycek said. 

"But does it really?" Doggett said. "From where I stand, the way I love Ginny, who I gave birth to, doesn't feel that different than the way I loved Luke, who my wife gave birth to, back before I had my change. And what does any of this have to do with the fact that in two hours, I'm meeting with the man that may have everything to do with the fact that I got pregnant in the first place?" 

"Nothing, I suppose. Let's make plans then, and save the moralizing for later," Krycek said. Krycek was surprised to see this side to John Doggett, to see how passionate and angry he could be. It didn't just surprise him, but intrigued him. And for the first time, he felt jealous of Mulder. Of the pair of them having each other, when he had no one. He thought back to what Vanya had once said, that he didn't love Mulder, but he didn't not love him either. That the man was a puzzle he could never solve. And to see how this one, this forthright man without all the twists and complications, loved Mulder and was loved back in turn, confused Krycek even more. 

* * *

Two hours later, Doggett pulled into the parking lot of the hotel that Daniel had specified. It was really more of a motel, with a long row of single story rooms that you could pull right up to. The building was white and l-shaped, with the doors to the rooms on the inside of the L, so that they weren't visible to drivers passing on the street. The sort of place you'd meet someone for an affair, a secret assignation. It looked like many of the cheap hotels Doggett had stayed in over the years. At the time, he'd often wondered how many of the guests were locals engaging in infidelity, just like Daniel thought he was here for. 

He looked at Krycek for a last time as he pulled the Volvo station wagon into the parking space just in front of the room Daniel had specified. It was right next to Daniel's little Mercedes convertible. Yeah, Daniel did more than alright by himself, perhaps much better than you would expect for the garden-variety OB that he was. 

"This is it," Doggett said. 

"Unless you wanted me to get lost so you could get cozy with this guy, like he thinks you're going to," Krycek said. 

"I oughta slap you for a comment like that," Doggett said. Something weird was going on with Krycek, he thought, but there'd be time to figure that out later. "Let's get on with it." 

A moment later, Doggett was at the door, knocking on it. Krycek was standing at his back, so he'd be out of sight when Daniel opened it. The door opened and Daniel stood in the doorway. Daniel obviously had sex on his mind already. He was wearing no shirt, revealing a powerful, lightly haired chest. On his lower half, nothing but a tight pair of jeans, once dark, but worn to light in places. Doggett couldn't help his eyes drifting downwards, and he ended up getting a quick stare at just how well Daniel filled those jeans. Daniel must have had the stirrings of an erection. And again, Doggett realized just how tall that Daniel was. Here at the door, the man towered over Doggett by inches. It was unnerving to be the short one, the small one. Doggett and Mulder were of a size. Even when he'd been with larger men, like Dennis, at least Dennis had been no taller than Doggett. 

"You look great, John," Daniel said. "You've lost all the baby weight already." 

With that, Daniel reached out to touch Doggett's belly, to feel the flatness that Doggett had regained. Doggett was wearing only a thin t-shirt and it was hard to steel himself to feel nothing at the touch. It was a curious mixture of revulsion and desire he felt, desire only because his body didn't seem to be in proper communication with his mind, and the body would want what it wanted. 

Then Daniel's hand drifted upwards, making its way to the small breasts that Doggett had developed. They were just barely bumps, but their nipples had grown almost embarrassingly large. The thin t-shirt emphasized them unfortunately, making Doggett wish he'd taken the time to change into something not so thin. Why hadn't he thought about that? Perhaps because he'd spent so much of his time around Fox and the babies these days, neither of who seemed to notice anything unusual about him having those little breasts. 

Doggett had to let Daniel's hand drift up, even let him touch a nipple briefly. Though he felt an impulse to slap the hand away, he had to suppress it. At least until they were in the hotel room with the door shut behind him. 

"In the room," Doggett said, forcing his voice to be low. He hoped it sounded gravelly and sexy, not like the suppressed ire that he really felt. 

"Of course," Daniel said, nodding, with an anticipatory smile on his face that vanished completely, like windshield frost in the blast of the defroster when Doggett stepped into the room, with Krycek close at his heels. 

"What's going on here?" Daniel demanded. "What is this, John?" 

"Relax, Daniel," Doggett said. "I've just got a few questions for you to answer and Alex here is hanging around to make sure you answer them." 

Doggett hadn't seen Krycek pull the gun out from the leather jacket that even the sopping wet heat hadn't caused him to part with. But the gun was in Krycek's hand. "Sit down," he said to Daniel. "You'll be more comfortable that way." 

And so Krycek directed Daniel to move completely into the room and to sit at the desk chair. Daniel's eyes were open wide and he watched Krycek compulsively, with the panicked eyes of a rabbit watching a sky full of hawks. Krycek produced a pair of handcuffs from the jacket and cuffed Daniel to the chair. 

"Why'd you do it, Daniel?" Doggett asked. 

"Do what?" Daniel tried to sound confused, with injured dignity. There was something else under there, though, that Doggett read, along with a flick of the man's eyes to the left, that was clear as day. The man felt guilty about something. Maybe it wasn't about what he thought it was, but Doggett could read guilt in a man like others read the newspaper. And it was good to see that his cop instincts hadn't atrophyied with parenthood. 

"Don't get cute with me, Daniel," Doggett said. "You're not the father of my child. You were the only one that could be according to my memory of the event. Therefore, it had to happen sometime I don't remember. And you're the only one who could have made it so I don't remember. How'd you do it? You drugged me didn't you?" 

Daniel didn't answer. At least not at first. Krycek had sat nearby. He'd put his gun away, but brought it out again, casually, as if examining it. But also as if there was the intention of using it. It was a good act. Daniel sure bought it, because his eyes grew big and panicked. But Doggett didn't, for some reason. He could tell it was for show and that Alex had no intention of using it. 

"What'd you drug me with, Daniel?" Doggett demanded again. He got right up into Daniel's face, not quite touching him, but an inch away. Now was the time, he thought, to use all the techniques that were a little too much for straight police work. Anything that might give him an edge to crack this man, spilling open the most important secrets he might ever hear. 

"I don't know," Daniel blabbed finally. Doggett was only surprised that Daniel had cracked so easily. Maybe he'd been waiting for any excuse. "It was an injection with a superfine needle. They gave it to me to use on you." 

"On me specifically, or just on the man of your choice?" Doggett asked. He wasn't sure which would be worse. To have been stalked or to be a random victim. 

"I fell in love with you at the club. It could have been anyone. I'd been planning on making it this other man I knew. But then I saw you." 

"Who are they? Who did you drug me for?" 

"I....I guess I'm not even sure. I was approached by a man, a colleague of a colleague originally. They've never asked me to do anything I considered wrong. Just monitor women who come to my office as patients. If they meet certain criteria, I let my contact know, and then I'm given another doctor that I refer my patient to. I'm not hurting anyone." 

And that, more than anything else was why Doggett could never, would never, ever be with a man like Daniel. Because there was that unthinking amorality there. The man had no sense of how his actions could cause harm to others. 

Because every moment you were with Fox Mulder, you were aware the man possessed a great good heart, full of passion and love. And this man in front of him had the opposite, a shriveled, unfeeling, mere hunk of muscle that did nothing more than pump blood. 

For a moment, he felt sorry for the shallow, broken man. But then Doggett remembered twisted, agonized fetuses in jars at Zeus Genetics. And Alex Krycek almost not making it out of there alive. He thought of the cold, expressionless doctor. That was evil. 

"What'd they promise you to drug me, Daniel?" Doggett asked, suddenly filled with calm fury. 

"A child," Daniel said. "That I would be the father of your child. Of whichever man I chose. It was just six hours they needed you. They promised no harm would come to the man I chose, just a child. John, did anything really bad happen to you because of my choice?" 

Doggett felt the fury gathering. In a moment, it would move of its own accord, raise his hand up and strike the man with it. But before he could, Alex had moved. He was the one doing the striking. His backhand slap whipped Daniel's head around. 

"I've had enough of your justifications. We're not here for excuses, we're here for information. Give me an address. A name. Something," Alex said. 

"I can't," Daniel said. He just about whimpered it. Alex's smack across his mouth had caused a small cut and a tiny trickle of ruby red blood dripped from the corner of Daniel's mouth. When Alex continued to hover over him, as if threatening to offer more violence should the talk not continue to flow, Daniel said, "They'll kill me if I give them away." 

"And I'll kill you right now if you don't," Alex said, coldly. His hand was on his gun again. How could Doggett read the bluff so clearly and Daniel fall for it so easily? That severe, hard face was just a cover for other emotions far less readable. Daniel, on the other hand, started to blubber, the tears on his face sudden, wet and graceless. Fear for his miserable life, it seemed, was the man's breaking point. 

"It's a company called New Generations," Daniel said. "I report to a Doctor Blair and a Doctor Austin, but another doctor from the company approached me about finding a man for their purposes. I could guess why they picked me..." 

"They know all about your little kinks, don't they, Daniel?" Alex said. "Right down to probably having a catalog of your porn library. I know how these people work. This is your big chance to get away from them. Right now, they own you, lock stock and barrel." 

"I don't know any more to tell you," Daniel stammered. "They didn't want me to know anything." 

"Both you and I know that's not true, Daniel," Alex said. "Now, let's start out with the criteria that you use to send them to New Generations." 

"I look for certain abnormalities," Daniel said. "Mostly in their first ultrasound. They trained me to see what to look for. It's very subtle. Even most doctors would miss it at that stage. It gets more obvious as the pregnancy advances. In some women, their children develop into... monsters. We're really doing them a kindness by." 

Daniel stopped mid sentence as if suddenly aware of what he'd been saying. Whether it was that he didn't want to betray himself further or whether now was the first attack of conscience he'd ever had about this, Doggett didn't know. 

"What happens to those women, Daniel?" Alex asked. "What kindness do you do them? Miscarry the pregnancy so they don't have to give birth to monsters?" 

"No," Daniel said. "They believe they've given birth to a normal child, but that it dies soon after birth. Better that than some of the monsters I've seen." 

* * *

Alex thought of his own fears, once he learned that his pregnancy was not of the usual origins- that he'd been carrying some kind of monster. He pictured the mewling, weak of body, but strong of mind grays, and thought of one of them being born from him. He had a sudden mind to crack this man across the mouth again. But he restrained himself. It would have been from anger, and not the carefully controlled appearance of anger like earlier one had been. 

Interrogation had never been his best subject at charm school. Even now, with a subject like this whimpering cur who was splitting like a melon under the slightest pressure, he couldn't be sure that he was getting the full story, every gem and gram of information. He was far better at subterfuge. He wondered now why he hadn't proposed that to Doggett. He could have so easily let himself get picked up in a bar or something, and in a single hour probably gotten more out of this man than they had all evening. 

Perhaps it was that he couldn't bear the thought of being touched by the man, or any man for that matter. So many hands had been on him, possessing his body. Demetrios' crude bludgeonings still came to him as his slept, the body memory of them even sometimes causing him pain, or startling him awake. Nightmares of his rape in prison were a continual nighttime companion. He wondered if he would ever want sex again. For now, the only one that his body belonged to was his son, and perhaps that was the way it was meant to be. 

"Where is it? This place where you do these kindnesses to these women?" Alex asked. He kept his voice even and dull. If he let himself slip even a little into anger, he'd go all the way. 

"Tyson's Corner," Daniel said. Then he gave the exact address. 

"Let's go, Doggett," Krycek said. "We're not going to get anything more useful out of him." 

"I'm calling Monica and Dana in to arrest him," Doggett said. 

"You're signing his death warrant," Krycek warned, thinking about all the informants, all the minor operatives who'd been arrested who just died in their prison cells, by accident, by supposed suicide. 

"The powers that be not wanting any of this to get out," Doggett said. He seemed to pause to think for a while. "I figure he's just as safe in prison as he is anywhere at this point. I'm calling Monica." 

Krycek headed for the door, trying to insinuate himself out of this tawdry hotel room swiftly and silently, as if Doggett might not notice. 

"Where are you going?" Doggett asked as Krycek's hand had touched the doorknob. Doggett had been standing with his back to the door. 

"I'm going to do something about this New Generations before they know we know about them," Krycek said. "The instant it gets out that Daniel is in custody, they're going to roll themselves up, fall into the rabbit hole and pull the hole down after themselves. They'll disappear just as quickly as Zeus Genetics did." 

"So, we'll have to figure what we can do to keep it under wraps," Doggett said. "But I'm bound by the law." 

Krycek thought he understood. Doggett was giving him a chance to do things his own way. Doggett trusted him. Krycek found himself not wanting to let the man down. 

* * *

Mulder hadn't even been aware at first that John and Krycek had left together. He'd been on the fringe of their conversation for a while and he'd figured out that they were going to round up Daniel Kerry for a chat. But then Mulder was suddenly in charge of both the babies, and there was still the crowd around the house. Only after the Gunmen all drifted home did Mulder realize that both John and Krycek were gone. He was alone with the babies, Monica and Scully. 

"When did they go?" He asked Scully. 

"I'm not sure," she answered. She checked her watch. "They were here at six still, so no more than two hours ago." 

"I'm not worried," Mulder lied. "But why didn't they tell me they were leaving and where they were going?" 

"I think John might have been afraid you'd try and stop him," Scully said. 

"Damn right I would have," Mulder said. "He has no idea how dangerous these people can be. And he's with Krycek." 

Krycek, at least, would be a snake among snakes. He'd be able to take care of himself. But could he be trusted to take care of John too? 

John apparently thought so. That thought gave Mulder pause. Long enough pause to look down at the baby he held in his arms. It was Kesha. His son with Krycek. Ginny was sleeping peacefully in a portable bassinet at his feet, sweet rosy perfection. Kesha was awake for the moment, but satisfied with everything. His eyes had turned green, Mulder noticed, and right now, Kesha was looking right at him. As Mulder moved his hand towards the infant, Kesha grabbed Mulder's index finger as it came into proximity. 

Kesha was just as perfect as Ginny, in his own way. His fingernails were still so small as to be just flecks. But for one so small, he grabbed onto Mulder tightly. The baby's hair was a gleaming brown, silky fine as Mulder brushed a finger down it. Hard to imagine that such a miraculous, perfect child had come from Krycek, born out of his body, as women had from time immemorial and men had just lately. Krycek- liar, thief, murderer. It seemed inconceivable that he was the instrument by which this perfection had been shaped. 

Mulder thought briefly about throwing a curve ball, the way that it would snap out of your hand, racing through an arc determined by gravity, force, inertia, in a velocity that finally would impact with another snap into the catchers mitt. Any one of those factors could be off, the spin, the speed, and it would crack against the bat instead, whirled into the sky. Every action, he knew, has an opposite and equal reaction, ball against bat, bat against ball. The laws of physics were immutable and inescapable, at least in this zip code. 

Were he and Krycek destined to be that bat and ball, Mulder wondered? Always on opposing sides, one always sending the other off on some strange and unforeseen trajectory. 

"Mulder?" Scully broke through his reverie. 

"Yeah, Scully?" 

"I just got a call from John. He's asking us to take Daniel Kerry into custody," she said. 

"So he's safe?" Mulder asked. 

"Apparently so," she said. "I should go." 

Then it was just him and the babies. Because a slight breeze had started outside, just enough of one to toss the leaves, and because it was still so foully hot in the house, he brought the babies out with him to the backyard where they might catch a bit more of the breeze. He settled down, by accident, on the chaise where Krycek had been this morning. 

He thought, then, about Krycek. He had not, from the beginning, trusted the man. Perhaps at first it had been the edginess caused by those first volcanic awakenings of his true sexuality. He hadn't wanted that cataclysmic attraction. It had been a relief, in a way, to find out about the betrayal, those cigarettes in Krycek's car a happy vindication. He'd been off the hook. 

He thought about seeing Kesha sleeping all day on Krycek's chest. For a minute, Mulder could almost look at the man and not see the betrayer, the man who had killed his father, but only the man who loved a child beyond all reason, just as Mulder loved his children. A man who would care for that child with all the tenderness and protectiveness that was in him to give. In short, a man that Mulder might even find it in him to admire. 

Seeing both the fiend and the gentle, strong man made him question, for the first time, his perceptions about Alex Krycek. Surely, the truth of the man must be somewhere between the two perceptions. But weighted towards which one? 

Mulder thought he owed it to his child, his son, to see the truth of his other father. Perhaps if he saw the truth of the man, he could speak to him, could find those words, which would cause him to relinquish his grips on Kesha. 

What had John said earlier, about asking Krycek to stay? What did he have in mind? Krycek buying a house across the street? Shared custody? 

He had a sudden, incongruous picture of Krycek living in the house next door, complete with a spouse. And even though the man remained faceless in this imagining, there was a brief burst of jealousy. 

* * *

The house was dark and quiet when Doggett got home. But before he could get concerned, he caught sight of Fox in the backyard, pacing up and down in the familiar baby comforting waltz. Doggett parked the Volvo and got out. He joined Fox in the backyard and held out his arms for the kids. 

"They're both hungry," Fox said, as he transferred Ginny, who was crying the loudest first. "You were gone." 

"There was something I had to do, for all our sakes," Doggett said, thinking about how Kerry had truly just been excised from their lives, led away in handcuffs by Scully, arrested under the charge of abduction. Doggett thought about the little recorder he'd stuck in his pocket, cruder than being wired sure, but it had picked up Daniel's confession of that just fine. Who knew if they could make it stick, or if they even wanted to. 

"Where's Alex?" Fox asked as Doggett settled himself in a chair with the child. 

"He slipped out just before Scully got there," Doggett said. "You know, that's the first time you've ever called him Alex. And the first time you've said the man's name without hissing it practically." 

"I'm trying to think more rationally about the man. I think I owe it to our son. Where did he go?" 

"We got an address from Daniel for the people he works for. Alex went there to see what he could find," Doggett said. 

Fox handed him Kesha, asking, "What's the address?" 

"You're not going," Doggett said. But the determined look on Fox's face, the sudden set of the jaw and fire lighting up in those hazel eyes made him change his mind. He wouldn't be able to stop Fox. This was the man who'd been gone since he'd been abducted. Fox Mulder was, for the first time, fully back to life. 

Doggett said, "Of course, you're going." 

It wasn't that he'd not treasured Fox Mulder, the gentle father, not that was even gone, but that he now recognized that part of the man had been missing, not recovered from being lost. Perhaps Jeremiah Smith could restore a broken body to perfect health, but that health of the mind and spirit was not amenable to his alien touch. Whether it was time or just opportunity and circumstance that had brought about this reawakening, Doggett didn't know. But he was both afraid for Mulder and surprisingly glad for him. 

"Be careful, you've got a lot to come back to now," Doggett said. "Not like before." 

"We may find nothing there," Fox said. "Or it may be a trap." 

Doggett quickly told Fox what little information they'd been able to get out of Daniel. It didn't seem much, not in the face of his lover going out into some unknown. Fox claimed one last kiss, leaning over the babies in Doggett's arms. 

"I know," Fox said. "I'll be careful." 

"You'd better. You get yourself killed and I'm going to kick your ass." 

* * *

Krycek sat in a car. It wasn't his car. But he wasn't planning to damage it and he wasn't even going to take it far from where he'd found it. It was just protective coloration mostly. You couldn't just stroll around in a neighborhood like this. It was too suburban, too many big office blocks set off in their own acres and acres of chemically kept emerald green turf, accessible by high-speed roads. A pedestrian stood out. A car was expected. With a car, he might be a worker drone from one of the corporations, getting off from hours of overtime. Or, in the early morning darkness, preparing to start his long day. The parking lot to the building was far from empty, and though most of the windows of the office block were dark, a number were lit up in gold. He'd have to be careful, with so many still in the building. 

He wished that he had time to reconnoiter, to get a sense of the layout and hazards. He'd done that often enough, posing as a delivery person. Walk around with a messenger bag and you could go just about anywhere in the average building with not a single person giving you a second look, much less questioning you. Now, though, he would just have to count on his talent for what he called blending. Though he couldn't quite explain how he'd done it, it had gotten him into a great number of places that he shouldn't be, including the Hoover building on a number of occasions. It was, he had decided since coming back into contact with his brother, just another kind of mental talent. Something he really had, not just imagined. 

He was wondering how best to put this talent to use in the building before him when the car door opened. He startled but micro-seconds later was reaching for his gun. 

He had the gun drawn but the safety still on when he saw who it was. Mulder. 

"You wouldn't shoot the other father of your son, would you, Alex?" Mulder asked. 

"Not by accident," Krycek said, holstering the gun. "What are you doing here, Mulder?" 

"We're looking for the same thing," Mulder said. 

"The truth?" Krycek said bitterly. "You have the truth, Mulder. I gave it to you. I've done nothing but tell you the truth all along. The truth is worth nothing." 

"No," Mulder said softly. "I'm here to see that my children are safe." 

It wasn't an answer that Krycek wasn't expecting, but for all that, it had a power to it. Perhaps it was in the intensity of how it was delivered, the conviction of a mad man or saint that Mulder seemed to be able to draw on at will. Or perhaps it was just hearing Mulder, for the first time ever, call him Alex and speak softly and respectfully to him. 

"All I know is that New Generations takes up most of the third floor. I don't know what I'll find there, if it'll be worth the risk or not. Or if I'll be able to get in at all," Krycek said. "I'm just going to go in through the lobby." 

"Just walk right in? And nobody's going to stop you?" Mulder asked, disbelievingly, but not mockingly. 

"It's a talent, Mulder. Like telekinesis, only a bit more subtle." 

"That explains a lot," Mulder said. "I always just assumed you used conspiracy connections to get in and out of the Hoover." 

"I only wish I still had those kind of connections," Krycek 

"Who are you, Alex?" he asked. 

"What do you mean, who am I?" Krycek asked, feeling a strange edge of panic. It was like a cover was about to be blown. Like Mulder was about to have the edge over him for the first time. None of that was really true, but that's how it felt. "Mulder, I don't have time for this." 

"Fox," Mulder said. "Call me Fox. We have a son together. I think that entitles you to call me that." 

"Mulder," Krycek said firmly. Part of him knew some knot in the puzzle of Mulder had come undone. And his heart raced and the bottom dropped out of his stomach at the thought that it might all come undone. It might well just be more comfortable to have Mulder forever a mystery and never someone close and intimate. Someone he called Mulder and not Fox. 

"Mulder," Krycek repeated. "I think I know what this is about. You're trying to..." 

Krycek fought for the right word. Tame wasn't quite it, but close. Not close enough. It was as if Mulder finally recognized the puzzle he presented to Krycek and was trying to unwrap himself. 

"You're trying to close the distance between us. You're trying to bridge gulfs that will never be bridged. You're trying to get close to me because you think then I won't go away and take your son with me." 

"Don't I deserve a chance to do that?" Mulder asked. 

"No, it's not going to happen. Too much unforgivable has happened between us. I can never make up for it. Nor can you," Krycek said. 

Something that had been floating around the margins of his consciousness blossomed into a moment of sheer clarity. He hadn't realized the truth until it appeared to him, but now that it had, he knew it had been crowding his brain all along, ever since Kesha had been born, ever since, to be true, the moment that Cancer Man had told him who Kesha's other parent was. "But I've been thinking hard though. Really hard. Kesha is staying with you and Doggett. You have your son. And we're even. Now, go, and let me get to work." 

* * *

Alex's words were so final and so deathly cold that Mulder found himself automatically reaching for the door handle. He stopped himself at looked to Alex, hoping to catch his eye again, open the conversation again, but Krycek already had the door open, preparing to melt into the night, just like he always had before. Then he'd be gone, to show up again at will, maybe. 

"This isn't for you, Mulder," Krycek said as he left the car. "This is what's best for my son. That's the only reason. I'll be in contact later with a place he can reach my family when he's older." 

It was what Mulder would have said he wanted once, for Krycek to just disappear, never to lay claim on Kesha again. And yet, he ached as if there was something that might have been just slipping through his fingers. What, he wasn't sure. Anything he could have started with Alex, by definition, would have destroyed what he had with John. And yet as much as he loved John, there was always that something with Alex, a chance, a hope, a something that might have been one day, except now that was completely gone for the first time. It would never be. 

He waited several minutes in the car, as if Alex might come back and say that it was all a mistake. But he didn't. 

The wind had been picking up all evening, some storm front moving through. Mulder hadn't noticed it though. Once, before Jeremiah Smith had revived him, he would have felt the coming rainstorm in his bones, at the sites of old wounds. Not anymore. He didn't realize the coming storm until he looked out at the otherwise empty parking lot and noticed that the small crabapple trees that scrabbled for a living between the rows of parking were bending and swaying their gnarled limbs in the wind. 

He finally decided Alex wasn't coming back and that it was time to go back home. The lightning came first, illuminating everything briefly in its sharp, actinic light. Then, as Mulder was about ten feet away from the car, the gates of the firmament opened and a sea sluiced down from the sky, drenching Mulder instantly. Mulder walked on, figuring it would be only another moment or two to where he'd parked his car. The damp denim of his jeans made him suddenly aware of the rocks shoved in there earlier, the chunks of ore that Krycek had given him. Krycek's supposed secret weapon against the aliens. He pulled them out of his pocket absent-mindedly, fondling them. 

The man must have been watching, waiting for Mulder to move from the car. He was suddenly illuminated in the next flash of lightening. He was on Mulder even before the thunder clash could sound, seconds later. Mulder hardly knew what was happening, just that there was an unbearable pain, as if someone was trying to snap his neck, and everywhere he scrabbled, it seemed, was something akin to a steel wall, only it was dressed as a man. 

It was sheer chance that caused him to slam the chunk of ore into his attacker's face hard enough to make any kind of impact. He was released immediately, to see the big man with dark hair writhing on the asphalt, seeming to rip apart at this very seams. Krycek had called those rocks the only protection against the new hybrids. And now he was seeing one of those new hybrids being destroyed by it. 

There were flashes, as if something electrical in the hybrid that was shorting out. Then there was something that writhed like snake, an unlikely chain of beads- steel shaped like vertebrae. Then those too seemed to shake themselves to component molecules. And finally, there was nothing where a large, man-shaped object had been. 

It took several seconds of standing dumbly in the rain for Mulder to realize that the threat was gone and that more than anything, he needed to get back home, to make sure that John and the babies were okay. 

He tore across town as quickly as he dared in the rain, which gave no signs of stopping. It must have been some sort of tropical system, blown north from Florida, unusually far north. There were no more lightening flashes, just incessant, typhoon like winds and rain. The windshield wipers, even running their fastest, barely kept the windshield clear enough for him to see the road ahead. 

Finally, he recognized his own turnoff, then soon, the comfortable little house that had become his home. Most of the house was dark, but the living room light was still on. 

He expected to find John asleep, maybe upstairs in bed, but the man was full awake, upright on the leather sofa, even though it was already pushing to four in the morning. The babies were both asleep in portable bassinets on the floor next to his feet. John had a small box on the couch next to him and was reading and apparently, rereading a white sheet of paper. 

"I thought you'd be asleep by now," Mulder said. 

"Someone important to me once said that you don't clock out until the job was done," Doggett said. "Parenting, the job is never done, but I think I owe it to the kids to figure this out before I sleep." 

"What's that?" Mulder asked. 

"Instructions that Alex left behind," John said. "He's not coming back apparently. But he left this. These injections. Enough for both of them." 

"Magnetite?" 

"Yeah," John said. "A weapon to protect them, he says." 

"Do you think that there's something.... alien in our children?" 

"I don't know," John said. He was silent a long time, looking at the two silent babies. His brow was heavily wrinkled, thinking deep. "But I do know that Alex thought that it was best for Kesha. And I do know that he'd kill or die to protect his son. Not do anything to harm him." 

"I think we should do it," Mulder said. "We owe him that, considering how much he's given us." 

When John was silent, a kind of question in itself, Mulder added, "He's not coming back for Kesha. We'll raise him. And I saw the stones work. Alex is right. We do have a weapon." 

And wasn't that what it was all about? Doing one's best to protect one's children by any means necessary, using the information one has at the time, to the best of one's knowledge and ability. That was what Alex had done, knowing that he was unable to care for his child himself. And Mulder knew, for the first time, what side Alex was on. Or on now at least. Having a child had transformed him in no less a way than it had transformed Mulder himself. We shape our children, Mulder thought, but as we do, they can hardly avoid shaping us. And they were no blunt instrument, but a scalpel of finest precision 

"I'm about as ready as I'll ever be for this," John said. He was holding a syringe. 

* * *

epilogue 

Fox was out in the yard, chasing the kids around. From the giggles and screeches that Doggett heard, a good time was being had by all. That swing set they'd bought at the beginning of the summer had turned out to be a great idea. 

Doggett was cleaning out the spare bedroom that they'd just always used for storage. At nearly six, the kids were getting to the point where they each needed their own room. So the old sports equipment and other junk was going to have to find some other home. Amvets was coming to make a pickup first thing tomorrow morning. Doggett spotted a rolled up rug lying along the wall. It'd been at the bottom of some pile. He tried to remember where he'd gotten it from and failed. Maybe it'd been Fox's. When they'd combined their households, there'd been a lot of stuff on both of their sides that they'd had to get rid of. The rug was sort of an ugly brown, he could tell from the backing of the rug. 

He hauled it downstairs draped over his shoulder figuring to ask Fox what he wanted to do with the rug. Nothing probably. They hadn't missed it for over five years, they weren't likely to miss it now. 

Fox was shepherding the kids into the house as Doggett made it downstairs. Ginny darted into the lower level powder room, on an obvious mission. Kesha had already pulled the fridge open, rummaging for a snack. 

"An apple or carrot sticks, no sweets," Doggett said, firmly. Kesha made a little sound of protest, but he knew better than to do more. He retrieved a small bag of carrot sticks. 

"Is this your rug?" Doggett asked Fox. 

"No, I always figured it was yours," Fox said. 

"Not mine," Doggett said. "I don't think so anyway. It's kind of ugly. I thought unless you wanted it, it'd just go to AmVets." 

"That's fine," Fox said. He was already looking towards the door, as Kesha was heading towards it with his handfulls of carrots. "Oh, the mail came. There's a letter from Alex." 

Fox pointed. It was sitting on the kitchen counter. The postmark on the outside was from St. Petersburg, but the letter inside usually had postmarks from all over the world. The last one had been from Hong Kong and had been full of picture postcards from all over China. Never a picture of Alex. That one had had no text, but sometimes there was a brief letter, always giving so little away about what the man was doing or even where he really was. 

Ginny darted out of the bathroom and back outside without even pausing to look up and see that her dad was in the room. It wasn't that she wouldn't have dropped everything to give him a hug. But that was just her, always on full overdrive and intently focused on whatever the particular goal at the time was. Kesha darted out the door after her and Fox followed the kids outside. 

Doggett left the letter behind. He wanted to open it with the whole family. The kids always wanted to know what "Uncle Alex", as they called him, was doing. 

The doorbell rang. Doggett went to go see who it was. He propped the rug up against the wall in the front hallway before answering. It was Monica. "I thought I'd come over and see if you needed any help in the great cleanup project," she said with a smile. 

"Almost done," Doggett said, pointing to the pile of boxes that were waiting to go outside. 

"What's this?" she asked, pointing to the rug. 

"It's a rug that neither Fox nor I can figure out where it came from. It's not really either of our kind of rug," Doggett said. "You want it? Otherwise it's just going to AmVets with the rest." 

Monica took a closer look at the rug, though she didn't open it up. She examined it closely, thinking about it, then finally drawing back with her lips pursed in an odd expression. "No," she said. "I don't think it's my kind of thing at all." 

* * *

Somewhere, in a pocket universe ninety degrees to the left the usual reality, Gene stirred in his barcalounger as he felt the woman thinking about taking the rug. Maybe Doggett had completely forgotten about what the rug was, but this woman seemed to know. He watched her stand there and think on his big console television. It was an old friend, that console. No matter when or where in the universe, it could always tune in new episodes of Dialing for Dollars and Let's Make a Deal. Or the outside world as necessary. 

Then, her decision made not to take the rug, Monica moved out of the focus range of the console. Gene heaved a big sign of relief and settled back down into his barcalounger with the sheer intent of someone who was thinking of taking a cat nap for the next couple of months, at the very least, for a couple of decades if possible. 

What a relief! It wasn't that he minded the work of making wishes come true. It wasn't that hard. But he was constantly afraid that he might get some joker who wanted to free him from the rug. The goodhearted ones like that woman were especially notorious for it. Some genies might have lived for that hope, but not him. He was quite happy where he was. He had his cup of tea at his elbow and his shows, no wife to pester him, and his sciatica didn't bother him that badly in here. It was a decent life, really, it was. 

  
 

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Title:   **Too Blunt An Instrument**   
Author:  Rose Campion   [email/website]   
Details:   **Standalone**  |  **NC-17**  |  **671k**  |  **03/30/06**   
Pairings:  Mulder/Doggett  |  Byers/Langly   
Category:  Drama, Romance, Angst, Male Pregnancy   
Summary:  A wish hurls John Doggett into a world that he could have never imagined possible, but that just might give him everything he needs.   
  
  
  
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